Biker in a Coma
by Leviathan Castiel
Summary: Dean hits a biker while trying to turn around, and though he comes out unscathed, the biker ends up in a coma. Dean, ever guilty, feels responsible and visits the biker in the hospital. This leads him to feelings, confessions, worries and paranoia he's unused to, and a fervent hope that this man won't die. Destiel. Mechanic!Dean, Comatose!Castiel. Human!AU
1. Working Up The Courage

A/N: Hey guys, this is the second go around with this chapter, this version being MUCH better. Nothing plot wise changed, just structure, voice, etc. I just wanted to let you know if you've read this before... it's different now. :) Enjoy!

* * *

 _There was a loud crash, an explosion, a sort of caving in on the rear end of the car, it was all very sudden. Very violent. Very wrong._

 _There was fire, and the smell of burning paint. Swearing followed by a door swinging open._

 _Two men, one terrified, one broken, sprawled on the concrete. One panicking, the other one so far gone he didn't notice the fuck's and the goddamnit's. He didn't notice the fumbling fingers, the shaking voice, the frantic words. He didn't notice the fire, the bike, the car. He didn't notice the concrete beneath him, the rips in his skin, the digging shrapnel cutting through his clothes._

 _But, the other was so keenly aware of everything. All of it happening so quickly. Passing like a flipbook of photos, some of them dragging on for an eternity as if he'd stopped on a page. He put a hand on either side of the man's head, screaming questions, needing responses._

 _But, he wasn't fast enough._

 _He couldn't save him._

 _The fire was faster than he was._

 _He watched the man bleeding out on the pavement._

 _The fire catching on his leg, and eating away at his skin before he noticed._

 _He watched the man burning, bleeding, dying, and he couldn't do anything._

 _He couldn't save him. He couldn't save couldn't-_

"Dean, dude, wake up," Sam hissed, shaking him harshly.

Dean sat up with a panicked flickering of his eyes, cold sweats coating his skin like the blazing fire had coated the skin of the man. The smells of a hospital lobby hit him with a suddenness he was unprepared for, plastic seats, sickness, freshly cleaned carpets, receptionist perfume.

"Man, maybe you'd feel better if you didn't sleep here," Sam sighed and shook his head at Dean. He turned back to his phone, the disapproving frown melting into frustration. "Or if you would just go up there and get this over with." He flicked through emails, typing responses quickly and sometimes muttering under his breath about the goddamn morons I work with.

Dean pulled his hand across his face, trying to wipe off the nightmare he'd had for the last two nights. "I'm working up to it," Dean growled, his voice groggy with morning.

"You've been working up to it for two days. C'mon, Dean, he's not gonna bite you." Sam rolled his eyes.

"Alright, when you hit some guy with a car, and you call me up for sympathy, I'll be damn sure not to share any with you," Dean caustically replied.

Sam raised his eyes, "I wouldn't be stupid enough not to look in my blindspot."

"Well, I didn't get any points off on my driver's test, whereas you…"

"Shut up, I got a perfect score on my written portion," Sam said it with a snotty undertone.

Dean rolled his eyes, "Yeah, but you couldn't drive, Sammy. You can write it all you want, but behind that wheel, you were screwed." He chuckled.

Sam glared at him for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. "Dude, go up there and apologize. Make sure he's alright. Talk to him for a little bit."

Dean grumbled, "See this girly chick flick shit is so much more your thing."

"Well you're the one sitting here like a teenage girl waiting for him to call you first. God, you're so immature." Sam's phone buzzed. Then buzzed twice more. He looked at his phone, buzzing again. "Goddamnit," he hissed. "Alright, Dean, I gotta go to work. They can't handle anything without me. Look, just go up there. Let me know if you make it in, or if you need a ride or something."

"Sure, sure, whatever," Dean said, a hollowness setting in his stomach. "I'll see you later."

"I don't want to see you later. I want you to go home, Dean, and sleep in your bed, okay? So, get this over with okay, stop being such a girl." Sam sighed, grabbing all of his stuff from the chair and tucking it under his arm. "I'll call you later, okay?"

"Okay," Dean said in exasperation. "Bye, Sam."

And with a few steps, a whoosh of the door and a whisper of cologne, Sam was gone. And Dean was alone in the lobby.

Dean felt the panic setting in. The feeling he thought was long gone. He felt the anxiety curling around his organs, forcing him to acknowledge the creeping fear that's been lurking in his veins since the crash. The shiver-inducing, breath halting, pain inflicting fear that's skulked around the back corners of Dean's waking thoughts and the very plain on which his nightmares took place.

That the man was as good as dead. That Dean had killed him. That all Dean ever did was kill people. That Dean was more of a burden to this world than any sort of savior.

That fear encapsulated all of his feelings.

It forced him into stillness and a paralyzed sort of terror that kept him trapped in that lobby, in that chair.

But, Sam was right. He needed to do this. Needed to go up there. Needed to try to help. Needed to see him.

On shaky legs, Dean stood. With shaky hands, he grabbed the flowers that lay next to the chair. Shaky breaths escaped his lips as he began to trek towards the elevator.

He knew the room number by heart. He was in the ICU, room 221.

The elevator seemed to arrive before Dean pushed the button, it's arrival near immediate despite Dean's desire for everything to slow.

Soft music was playing in the elevator. The kind of music Sam would listen to, classical, quiet, gross. Dean took a deep breath, holding on to his scathing thoughts about Sammy's music to keep him level headed.

Dean wanted to have pushed the wrong button, stepped onto the wrong floor, or have forgotten his jacket downstairs, all so that this may have been avoided. He looked around desperately for an escape. But, there was none.

He was on the ICU floor. He had his jacket. He had his gay ass flowers.

All he could do was walk, follow the signs, trudge his way until he was standing in front of 221, staring at the handle. And, so much, he wished that he could just push the handle, throw the flowers in, yell an apology and run. But, Dean Winchester wasn't raised to run away.

He was supposed to fucking fight.

To be a man.

To be strong.

To only hurt those who threaten Sam, who threaten Dean, who threaten their country.

He's not supposed to run away like a little bitch.

Dean took a deep breath, resolved to finally do this.

"Sir, are you alright? Do you need something? Are you lost?" A shorter nurse had stopped mid power stride to question him, her eyes flicking between him and her clipboard, calculations happening behind her eyelids every time they closed.

"Uh… I'm fine," Dean said, confusion laced in his tone.

"Do you know who you're visiting?"

"Uh, yeah, this is his room." He gestured.

She did a startling clap, "Oh good, I'm glad someone came to visit him. This is the Biker, right? Are you family?"

"Uh… no. I… just saw it happen…" Dean muttered, feeling the stretch of the truth carving more of his insides away into the hollowness he'd felt earlier, he felt all the time.

She smiled gently. "Oh, well, that's still nice. You know, I think they can still hear us when they're out like that."

"Out like what?"

"In a coma, of course. He went under after he came in. He was yelling something awful when they were setting his leg, but after that, he was out." She looked sadly at her clipboard. "I'm sure he'll be fine, he seems like a fighter to me." She smiled broadly, then, "Well, I've got to be off. Why don't you head on in, they may be able to hear us, but definitely not if we're out in the hall." She giggled, then whisked away, her scrubs swishing against her plump body at every step.

He looked at the door, then back to the woman, and finally pushed the door open. There were quiet beeps coming from the room and soft breaths from behind the curtain. Dean stepped into the room and closed the door.

His footsteps were nothing next to the breaths that Dean was counting. One, two, three… He was alive. The biker was alive. Four, five, six… Unconscious, but breathing.

He moved aside the curtain.

On the bed was a man. Broken, battered, burned and bandaged, but still a man. His chest moved with an achingly slow pace, and the ventilator next to the bed let out soft puffs of air when his chest went down. His body was encased in casts and wrappings and bloodied gauze. His left arm was in a white cast and the bottom half of his left leg in a blue one. His chest was wrapped in some white material, but there was blood staining it. His eyes were covered, and he had a tube under his nose. The rest of his body was spattered with bruises and scrapes.

Dean sank into the chair next to the bed.

"I am so sorry. I really am. I… I didn't mean to…" Dean whispered the words as the pain settled into his stomach. "I was just trying to turn around. I… you… you were coming so fast. I just…" On the side table, he put the wilting flowers that were missing half of their leaves from the nervous fingers Dean had acquired in the lobby where he'd tried to work up some courage.

"I brought you flowers. I know that's kind of girly, but whatever. That's what you're supposed to do, right? Flowers for the sick? The flowers die, but the person lives, it's like an exchange. The flower's life, for yours. Sam said some shit like that, and I figured it was decent reasoning."

Dean ran his fingers through his hair. "It's so stupid. I don't even know your name."

He watched the body on the bed. No response, no twitching, no life. The man was practically a corpse. Breathing, but nothing else. And, more than that, he seemed to be barely a person. No friends at his bedside, no weeping mother at the window, no piles of gifts and flowers, just Dean. The guy who'd gotten him into this mess.

"Where's your family, man?" Dean asked the body, looking at his lips for an answer he knew he wouldn't get. "Or your girlfriend? With that head of hair, you've got to have one. Or at least now you do, maybe little nursie got lucky while you were in surgery and that's why your hair is all sexified." Dean chuckled at himself.

When the man did nothing, when there were still only empty breaths filling the room, Dean felt the weight settle on his shoulders again. "I'm sorry, man. No one should be alone when they're like this."

Dean's phone started buzzing, Ellen it read on the screen. He sighed. "Look, man, I gotta go. I haven't gone to work for the last two days, and it's kind of my business."

Nothing. Only silence.

Dean felt the debilitating guilt wrapping itself around the fear and hollowness that swirled through his blood and around his veins.

"Well, how's this… I'll come in again tomorrow. Maybe bring a burger or something. We can share if you're into that." Dean stood and walked to the door and stopped, suddenly afraid to leave again. "Hey, bud, if you could… not die tonight, that'd be great." He took one more look at the sex haired man and left the room.

In the elevator he pulled out his phone and called Sam.

"Dean are you alright? What happened? What do you need?"

"God, mom, chill. I'm fine. I went in. I'm headed to work now. I just wanted to let you know I did it."

"So? What'd he say?"

Dean stood in silence for a moment, working over the words, trying to figure out how he could say it without it ripping more seams in his soul and caulking them back up with even more guilt and frustration.

"He's in a coma, Sam. And no one but me has visited. It's not right that someone is left alone when they're broken like this. I'm gonna come in again tomorrow."

"Oh… okay. I have to work, Dean… I would come, but…"

"No, Sammy, it's okay. I can do this. I'm the closest thing to family he's got right now."

"Considering you hit him with a car, I'm not sure I'm totally on the same page, but, whatever. I'll see you later, Jerk." There was a lilt in Sam's voice, as if he was trying to cheer him up.

"Whatever, bitch."


	2. The Extra Mile

"Hey, Dean, how's our John Doe doing?" Ashley, the regular nurse asked as she swept into the room, put the fresh flowers from Dean into a vase, and started to change the sheets on the biker's bed.

"I think we're making really great progress. When I told him about how I almost got my arm caught in an engine yesterday, I think he breathed a little quicker." Dean moved to help Ashley as she laughed, pulling away the starched white cloth. He still winced at the bruises on his body, but they were fading now.

She piled the bedclothes on the floor and smiled a thank you. She bustled over to the dresser where she'd set the fresh sheets down and started to remake the bed. "You're so sweet, you know that?" Ashley sat on the side of the bed, careful of the man.

Dean settled back into his chair, giving a soft chuckle. "Only around here, out in the real world I'm pretty rough." He flashed a smirk and a wink at Ashley.

She rolled her eyes, and continued, "No, really. I've never seen anyone put in so much effort for someone they barely know."

Dean looked at the man on the bed, machines breathing for him and nothing but the rise and fall of his chest to signify his will to live. The black hair that has hardly been washed, though thankfully there was no blood anymore. The pale skin, the casts, the gauze, the scrapes, the fading bruises… "I wish I could do more for him, but this is it. One-sided conversations, company he didn't ask for, and flowers."

Ashley shrugged. "Well, everyone needs someone. And, I'm sure he's glad that he's got you." She put her hand on his shoulder as she passed, and said, "I'll see you tomorrow, Dean. Don't stay too late."

Dean smiled and responded, "Well, you could see me tonight…"

"I told you, I'm gay. I'm sure with all the other girls my age you've got power like no other, but seriously, Dean. I have a girlfriend."

"You can bring her, too! It'll be a party! I promise I'm fun."

She rolled her eyes with much exaggeration and left the room with the dirty bedclothes.

"Hey, bud, did you see that?" Dean leaned in close to the broken man. "I'm pretty sure I almost convinced her. Maybe if I throw you in the mix, like a fourway, she'd be more down. I mean, unless you don't do the whole group thing. I get that… I guess. Sammy says he's never done that. He's always done the one at a time thing. But, sometimes that's so boring. Especially when she's dating him. God, I bet they probably just read erotic books-no, wait, it's historical books and that's the closest thing they've gotten to sex.

"Me? I think I've tried everything. I tried the steady thing once… twice… it's not really for me. It's kind of a lot of work. And usually not worth it. Someone always ends up hurt. And usually it's me."

He took a deep breath and knotted his fingers together. "The first girl… I loved her, man. I did. Her name was Cassy and she was beautiful and smart and she broke something in me in just the right way. She and I, we clicked. She pushed me. She forced me to realize that the world wasn't just about me. Wasn't just about Sam. That there was a lot of fucked up shit out there, and it's not worth the effort to focus it all on one thing. And she made me better. She made me whole. For the first time since mom…

"Yeah, but then I fucked it all up… I fucked everything up."

He screwed his mouth up, feeling the pain of the past rolling through his veins. He ran his tongue over his teeth, and leaned back in his chair again.

A while later he nodded softly. "But the past is the past, right? You can't change it even if you wanted to." He took a forced deep breath. "Anyways, all relationships are screwed, right? I mean, you probably know that best of all of us… no one but the guy who hit you has shown up to keep you company."

Dean glanced over at the comatose man, watching his ragged, blank face for a reaction, an answer, a comment… anything. It reminded him of his ex who would shut down when they were mad. They would isolate and pretend like they didn't care. They'd bring out the cold shoulder like a blizzard in canada, and Dean would be thrust wayside.

"Yo, man, I didn't mean that. I'm sure you've got family. It's just… no one knows who you are. No one could contact them."Dean reached out and patted the back of the man's hand. "Plus, I mean, I'm really not that bad. I definitely know how to have a good time, anyways. And I'm probably the funniest, sexiest man you've ever met."He pulled his hand away and wore a smoulder that sent every girl swooning.

Then he stopped moving. He swore he'd seen a finger twitch when he'd moved his hand away.

"Wait, buddy, do that again. Move. C'mon, I know you just did that. Don't make me call the nurse over nothing." His finger was already on the call button, his eyes intent on the now still hand. "Dude, don't bullshit me. I know you moved."

"What's wrong?" A male nurse ran into the room, hair slicked back and scrubs ironed. He looked pointedly between Dean and John Doe.

"He moved," Dean pointed at the man's hand.

The nurse sighed heavily. "Let go of the call button." He walked over to the heart rate monitor, moving Dean further away from the call button and the biker. "When?"

"Like… four seconds ago. I don't know. He moved! His finger moved!" Dean was pointing frantically, his mouth agape.

The nurse ran a hand over his face. He was probably doing something important.

Dean walked over to the other side of the bed and kneeled next to it. "Look, man, I ask you not to die every day when I leave, if you could go the extra mile and… live, that'd be astounding. The extra mile is a lot, I know.

"But, you're rising up, you're getting back on your feet, you've done your time, you took your chances, you went the distance and now you're back on your feet, just a man and your will to live-"

"Eye of the tiger, right?"

Dean paused in his inspirational quoting and looked at the nurse. "Yeah… I watched Rocky with my bud here last week."

"Wow, I haven't watched Rocky in forever." The nurse sneaked a glance at Dean, who was still staring incredulously at the man. He looked Dean up and down, quickly, then returned his attention to the monitor with a cough and newfound concentration. "Well his heart rate went up about a minute ago. Did you do something?"

"I was apologizing… telling him how funny I was…"

The nurse looked at Dean with raised eyebrows. "Really? That's all? Did you shake him or anything?"

"I touched his hand, but it was only a second…"

"His hand? The same one that moved?"

"Yeah."

"You probably just imagined it." The nurse pushed a few more buttons and it resumed its beeping, blinking screen that it'd had before.

Dean shook his head. "No, he moved." He looked at his hands, willing the nurse to be wrong. Hoping that he hadn't imagined it.

"Well, maybe he did. Maybe he didn't. He's not dead, but he's also not awake. So, I don't know what you want to do. You've been here every day right? For like two weeks, yeah?" Dean nodded. He walked over to the side of the bed Dean crouched next to."Maybe you're just antsy. I get it." He put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "I mean, he's like your brother or something right?"

Dean shrugged, "I don't even know who he is. But, I'm the reason he's in here. So, I felt like I needed to keep him company."

"Oh." The nurse pulled his hand back and walked to the door. "Visiting hours are over in five minutes, just so you know."

"Yeah. I know."

Dean spent the next five minutes staring at the comatose man, trying to will him to wake up. He studied the crevices and smooth surfaces of his face. Memorized the scrapes, bruises and burns he'd acquired after the crash. He traced the curve of his cheeks and lips with his eyes, and wished that they'd move, form words, start conversation. He wished that the man knew he wasn't alone. That Dean was there for him, even when his family wasn't.

"Dean…" There was a soft knock on the door as Ashley walked in. "Hey, visiting hours are over and Beck is throwing a fit about you. He's mad about something and he's making you the target. I think he and his girlfriend are fighting. But, sorry. You can come back tomorrow."

"You know I'll be here."

Ashley sent a soft smile towards him and stepped out of the room.

Dean walked to his chair and grabbed his jacket. "Well, buddy… go that extra mile, I know you can. I'll see you tomorrow."


	3. Back In The Shop

"Sam, I can't really talk right now. I'm kind of working on something," Dean huffed out the words as he tried to work the bolt off of the goddamn bike. This fucking burnt piece of shit was being awfully stubborn with Dean and he was about three seconds from throwing the whole fucking thing into the trash and building the bastard a new bike.

"Dean, look, I just wanted to check on you. You haven't called in a few days. I'm worried, man."

Dean threw the wrench to the ground. "Fuck off, Sammy. I'm just busy. Can't I have a little personal space?"

"Dude, the last time you fell off the grid, I had to dig you out of a car and drive you-"

Dean wiped his face with a greasy rag. "Yes, Sam, we all know what happened last time. But, I'm not dating anyone, and I've been clean for weeks. Plus, I really think Dr. Do-good really showed me the light." Dean rolled his eyes and leaned into the phone.

"I'm just looking out for you, Dean. You don't need to go all defensive with me. I'm your brother." He could hear Sam flicking through papers and typing something on his keyboard. "Anyways, I wanted to know how it's been going with comatose."

"Aw, he's great. He moved his finger yesterday. The nurse said it didn't happen, but I think he's just trying to get in my pants. Play the sympathy card." Dean laughed. "He's in for a surprise, ain't he, Sammy."

"Uh-huh, sure." Sam sounded distracted. "But he moved? Anything else?"

"I mean, we just keep bonding. We both like so many of the same things. Hospitals, nurses, clean sheets… we're practically twins."

"Based off of your descriptions… black hair, pale, cheeks carved by gods, a jawline you'd kill for-"

"Yes, exactly. Twins. We're both the sexiest men alive. He's scoring all the hot comatose women in comatose limbo, and I'm scoring-"

"The comatose man," Sam said sarcastically. "Who you happen to have a date with tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after." Dean rolled his eyes. "What are you going to do when he wakes up, Dean?"

"Keep visiting. Apologize while I'm making eye contact. I don't know, man, why?"

Sam took a serious tone. "Because, what if he doesn't want you to visit. Or what if he's a jerk?"

"Nah, Sammy. You're the jerk. He'll be cool. I'm sure."

Sam sighed. "I just want you to be prepared for the possibility that he might not take as easily to this friendship you've built as you have. Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Sammy."

"Alright. Well, get some sleep. Let me know if anything happens." Dean grunted an affirmative. "Oh, and for the record, Dean, you're the jerk."

"And you're a bitch."

Dean flipped his phone shut and tossed it onto the tool bench by the door. He glanced at the bike he'd been working over, the engine toast, the seat charred, the muffler bent to the point it was almost worth replacing, the hand clutch clenched as it'd been when the rider had last ridden it… it was so beat up. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed deeply.

A sharp click and a hissed _fuck_ from the other side of the room caught Dean's attention and whirled him away from his thoughts about the bike.

"Jo?"

"Dean can you get your ass over here and help me? I think I fucking broke something. Fuck."

"On you? Or the car?"

"Both, I don't know, come over here and help."

Dean pulled Jo out from under the car by her leg. "Hands," he demanded, and she put hers in his. There was blood, but not enough to be serious. She winced as he turned her hands over, wiped away the blood and touched various parts of her hand. Their eye contact was communication enough of the lack of injury.

"So, what'd you break if you didn't break yourself?" Dean asked, motioning for her to get off the creeper. He put himself on and rolled under the car.

Jo grabbed a mostly clean rag from her pocket and called, "The transmission? Or maybe the differential… I got my hand stuck and there was a crack and I wasn't sure what happened." She grabbed her water bottle from the side of the car and poured some on her cuts, washing away the blood.

"I think you got the differential. It's not too bad though. Nothing I can't fix." Dean held his hand out from under the car. "Wrench."

She handed it to him.

"Hey, so, where've you been the last couple of weeks? You haven't been in much. And when you are in, you're working on that bike. We miss you around here."

There was a quiet, the only quiet that includes whirring and dinging and air compressors begging for oxygen. Then Dean rolled out with the wrench in his hand, "I need a 5/8 rachet wrench." Jo grabbed the wrench, and replaced it with the rachet wrench.

"So? Where've you been? Ash has been asking a lot of questions I don't know the answer to," Jo inspected her hand for any serious gashes, then considered grabbing another creeper and coming in from the other side. "Come on, Dean, it can't be that bad."

"Remember when I got into that accident with the biker?" Dean sighed as he worked under the car. Jo responded quietly. "Well, I've been visiting him."

"Yeah? Like… at his house? I'm glad you're making new friends, regardless of the circumstances."

"No, at the hospital. He's in a coma. I've just been worried about him, Jo. So, I don't come in till late most days, after you guys have left. I work on the stuff you guys didn't finish." Dean slid out from under the car, and sat up on the creeper. "I hope it's been enough. I know it's my shop, and I should be here more, but… I mean, the visiting hours are during our hours. And, I worry that if I don't show, he won't… keep going. It's stupid, but it freaks me out."

Jo stared at Dean, waiting for more. She wasn't sure how long this _It's my responsibility, I'm the one to blame, I should just do the world a favor and off myself_ speech was going to be. When he didn't continue, she moved to sit on the creeper with him.

"Dean, we're fine. What you've been doing after hours has helped a ton. We were worried about space, and then suddenly everything was done. It's still your shop, and we still need you. But, if this guy needs you, I'm willing to share. I can stay late some days and help you with some of the bigger ones if you want."

"More like I help you, punk." Dean shouldered Jo.

She scoffed and shoved him back. "Who are you calling punk? Wuss."

Dean looked Jo up and down, sizing up for a mock fight, "You really wanna go, little girl?"

"Last I remember you were the one freaking out about a boyfriend." She smirked.

"Low blow, Harvelle." He shook his head and stood, wiping his grease stained fingers on his now slightly bloody rag.

Jo laid down on the creeper and slid under the car. She mmhmmed and uh-huhed, then slid back out. "Alright, Winchester, I think your quota for the morning's been met. You can go visit your boyfriend now. I'll hold down the fort."

"Thanks, Jo, you're amazing." He ruffled the hair on the top of her head. "Don't break anything else till I get back."

"No promises, Winchester."


	4. Have Faith and Such

"Alright, so I thought long and hard about bringing monopoly, figuring I could kick your ass better while you were asleep, not that you're any good while you're awake…" Dean shrugged out of his jacket and pulled over the bedside table. "But, I figured, you might not like monopoly. So, I brought a CD player, Metallica and a deck of cards. I'd play you in poker, but you've got nothing to bet."

He set up the CD player, let it start playing, quieter than he would have liked, but this was a hospital, and then started to lay cards out in a solitaire fashion.

"Knock, knock!" A perky voice came from the door.

Dean looked at the door with raised brows. "Uh, it's open."

An awfully skinny blonde rushed in looking astounded. She came to the bed, stared at the silent figure and peered at his face. She looked around frantically, eyes searching for the heart rate monitor, but instead landing on Dean.

"Oh! He has a visitor!" She visibly relaxed, shoulders slackened, chest slowing in its rise and fall, hands unclenching. "Wow, you had me freaked for a second there. I thought he'd woken up and I hadn't checked in on him. And I just started here. And I really need this job. And I'm so worried about him. But he's been here for a few weeks now, right? I just hope that he wakes up. I know that he's had a regular visitor. Oh! That must be you." The words rattled off her tongue without slowing. She had so much bubbling energy. She was pacing around the bed, hands moving frantically.

Dean stared at the blonde chick, hands stilled mid-air by the excessive words and overall seeming inability to control her own mouth.

"Yeah… I've been coming by," Dean said slowly.

She leaned up against the wall, next to the dry erase board with the times for his needle switches and his liquid replenishments. "So, are you like his cousin?"

"No, no. I'm just… a friend," Dean corrected, though an unsure note rang through his last words.

"Oh, well, I'm sure everyone's glad you've been stopping by. If you need anything let me know! I'm in for Ashley right now. She's on vacation with her girlfriend. They're adorable. But, yeah. I don't know how Ash usually runs things, but if anything happens with him, be sure to call for me." She walked around the room, picked up the dying flowers by the side of the bed and gathered them in her arms.

Dean's stomach clenched. He stood up abruptly. "Hey, actually, I know those are dying, but… could you leave them?"

The nurse looked at Dean with confusion clear in her green eyes. "Are you sure? They're practically shattering."

"Yeah. I'll take care of them, just don't worry about those. Everything else you can do normally. But, I'd like to have that… Please." Dean felt a panic starting deep in his bones. He could almost feel a quaking reverberating through his body until the very molecules of his skin was shaking with anxiety.

She set them back down, but made sure that the freshest bunch of flowers ended up in a clean vase of water. She smiled softly at him, "Yeah… I've been there. I get it." Dean nodded his thanks.

She took her time walking to the door, not seeming to be in the hurry that all the other nurses were in. She walked as though she knew the world would make time for her, and with nothing to say she had nothing to rush any longer. Before she waltzed out of the room and into the hall, she stopped and said, "And, by the way, my name is Jessica, in case you need to call."

"Dean Winchester," he offered in response.

She flashed a dazzling smile and stepped out of the room.

As she left she took with her a noise that Dean had silently noted. It was sort of a subtle noise, one that sounded when someone with as much energy as she possessed took control of a room, of a situation, then buzzed with exuberance and light that made a sort of twinkling noise to the right person. Dean was not that person. To him, the noise was almost grating.

The noise had been distracting and aching. Too much for this man of quick wit and growling threats. Never had he been a fan of the exuberant.

"Man, buddy, I sure am glad you aren't as… bubbly as that chick," Dean voiced his thoughts to his friend. No response. "See, you never disappoint. Never saying too much or doing too much."

Dean's phone started to vibrate in his pocket. "Hey, excuse me for a second." He held up his finger to the comatose man. "Hey, this is Dean Winchester."

"Hey, Dean. It's Sam."

"Hey, Sammy."

"How's it goin'?"

"Not bad. How bout work?"

"Disgusting. Wanna grab lunch?"

"I'm at the hospital right now, if you wanna bring some stuff by, I'd love to hang."

Sam sighed quietly. "The hospital, Dean? Really? Can't you leave?"

Dean screwed up his eyebrows and turned his lip down. "No, my buddy and I just started an intense game of poker. He's all in right now. If you come by, we'll deal you in."

Sam huffed a breath, then, "Fine. I'll see you in fifteen."

"I want ketchup and mustard on my burger, Sammy!"

"Yeah, whatever, you'll get what I get you."

Dean flipped his phone shut, then pumped a fist at his side. "Fuck yeah. Sammy's bringing us lunch, Bud. Or well, more for me. I'm not sure you're really ready to eat real food." He laughed.

"Oh, man, let me tell you about my morning though. I've been working on this thing for a couple of weeks now. I don't want to tell you about it yet, it's a surprise and you might be bullshitting me really hard right now to get me to confess my deepest darkest secrets to you, but you're wrong. I know what you're doing and it won't work.

"But, anyways after I worked on that… this girl who works in my garage, she…" And Dean regaled the stories of the morning. Not neglecting the part where he and Ash made a bet before he drove over here on when John Doe would wake up, and how if he didn't wake up before November 15th Dean was gonna have some honest beef with this man.

Sam showed up when Dean was getting to the part where he was picking up the flowers from the store down the street.

"God, Dean, you're so gay."

"Shut up, Sammy, I am not. Jesus, you hear this prick? He's just jealous you're my friend, and not his." Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam set the take-out bag on the table and pulled over the extra chair. "So, work has been Hell lately. We hired this new intern, Luci, and she's the sassiest girl upwards of the equator. You'd probably get along well with her." He pulled out the burgers and passed three to Dean without hesitation, then dumped ketchup and mustard packets on the side of the table.

"Eh, doesn't sound like my type. However… speaking of types."

"I'm not looking for a girlfriend right now, Dean. You know that. I've got Ruby."

Dean hid a grimace behind his burger. "Yeah… I know," the words would have been forced and full of anger and biting sarcasm had he not taken a bite of burger to suppress those very emotions and hide them behind his love of food. "But, there's this nurse…" he said with a mouth full of food.

"What?" Sam looked slightly annoyed.

"This nurse," each of Dean's words were mangled by the mashed mixture of meat, bread and condiments.

"Dean… I can't understand you."

"Fuck this." Dean pushed his chair backwards and pressed the call button, hoping that Jessica was the first responder.

Sam stuttered through words about how nothing was wrong and we didn't need to worry the nurses and they had enough to do right now and good god they're going to kill us-

"Yeah? What's wrong?" The grating noise had returned, and also a awfully convenient need for the restroom.

Dean wiped at the corners of his mouth. "Oh, shit, I didn't mean to hit that button. I was just showing Sammy here where it was. I need to use the little boy's room, and I figured he should know how to call in case something explodes while I'm not here."

Jessica looked disapprovingly between the brothers. "I'm sure that wasn't necessary," she stepped out of the way as Dean tried to scoot past her into the hallway. "But I don't disapprove of proper hospital etiquette."

Sam stood up awkwardly and bumped the table with his knees and half of the food nearly went careening to the floor. He reached and wrapped his arms around the table, stopping it from moving anymore. "I am so sorry about… my brother. He's a big jerk sometimes."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all," Jessica responded, tucking a hair behind her ear.

Dean walked out of earshot of the room, hoping that this bubble of energy and happiness would do his brother all the favors Ruby wasn't. She was so not the right type of girl for Sammy. She wasn't good enough. This Jessica would be thousands of eons better.

After the bathroom, Dean heard gentle laughter and the unmistakeable, spine tingling sound of nerd flirting and smart jokes. Dean shuddered and walked the other way. He found the elevator and headed down to the first floor, heading towards the coffee shop he frequented on his longer day visits here.

He passed the chapel on his way back to the elevator from the coffee shop, dim lighting, a few stain glass windows and some candles probably for the aesthetic, yet the absence of a cross or a jesus figure. Dean had never stopped in there in his countless hours spent at the hospital.

He stepped across the threshold, really only looking for a place to sit where there weren't nerds and exuberant blondes flirting. Shortly after he'd sat down, he felt a warmth caress his body. A comfort he hadn't felt in years. There was a safe silence that he was unaccustomed to, yet took to with ease and dulled senses.

There were four other people in the chapel. A muslim, who had his rug laid out towards the right wall, and he laid in a child's pose, soft murmurs that only added another layer of comfort to this quiet came from the man. Two women in the third pew, holding hands and keeping them raised into the air while kneeling on the prayer bench,, one kept looking at the muslim and Dean with wary eyes, and the other kept her eyes shut and mouthed what Dean made out to be the Lord's there was the pastor who was reading a bible a couple of pews ahead of Dean. He had ruffled hair and a salt and pepper beard. There was a familiarity in the hunch of his shoulders and the scratching at the back of his head.

Dean raised his cup to his lips and took a sip, trying to place the pastor. The scalding of the coffee came unexpected after this calm assessment of the room, and he nearly spilled the rest of the coffee, but managed to only sound a soft _fuck_ before silencing himself again. The woman with judgmental eyes screwed her pupils into Dean and seemed to want to bring the wrath of God through her very poisonous glare. The pastor too turned around and looked at Dean with wondering eyes.

"Dean?" He whispered.

The voice solidified the long-ago memories. "Pastor Jim!" Dean hissed back. Before he'd even finished, the pastor was working his way through the pews to get to Dean's.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" The pastor settled next to Dean on the bench. He held his thumb in the page where he'd been reading. "Is Sam alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. He's all good. He's upstairs flirting with a nurse right now."Dean chuckled softly. "Our Sam's growing up so fast."

Pastor Jim looked at Dean with fond, fatherly eyes. "You both are. It's been years, Dean."

Dean nodded. There'd been many nights he'd spent in the spare room of the church when Dad was on business trips, Pastor Jim helping Sammy chase away the nightmares with nighttime stories of superheroes and showing Dean how to defend himself against the bullies at school and making sure that both boys got full meals before bed. But, those nights were long gone, but they were still important, still part of Dean's makeup.

Pastor Jim looked at Dean curiously. "What's wrong, Dean? You look pained, worried… if it isn't Sam… what is it?"

"Pastor, I hit this man with my car a couple of weeks ago. He's in a coma now. I'm terrified he's going to die." Dean stared at the coffee in his hands. "I'm responsible for this, and I've been coming here since the accident. And, no one but me has shown up. No one knows he's here. He's a John Doe, his license and everything burned in the crash. I just… I wish I could do more."

Pastor looked at Dean with worried eyes. "Dean, there's nothing you could have done to prevent this."

"I was trying to turn around, he came out of nowhere. I swear to God he wasn't there when I checked my blindspot."

"Then, this is not your fault, and you must recognize it as so. Understand, Dean? Do not bear the weight of the world on your shoulders. Please."

Dean didn't respond. He stared at his cooling coffee.

Pastor Jim sighed and put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "And, as for something else you can do for him… you could pray. I know, it seems ridiculous sometimes and desperate at others, but maybe that's what this calls for."

Dean nodded. Pastor Jim shook Dean's shoulder lightly. "Well, regardless, you're welcome down here in the chapel whenever, for silence or for a place to pray. I come here around this time most days, just to console those who need it. Hopefully I'll see you down here more often."

"Sure thing, Pastor Jim," Dean nodded without looking up. "I'll send Sammy down here before he leaves, too."

"Wonderful. I'd love to see him," Pastor Jim said and then left Dean alone in the last pew of the chapel as he went to go meet with the praying women.

Dean was beyond all of the prayer shit years ago. Hell, all of this church stuff never sat well with him. But, he needed something to hold onto. Some semblance of hope. And what harm could be done in a prayer.

 _Dear God… or whoever's listening,_

 _I'm sorry about hitting that guy. All I want is for him to wake up. For him to go home to his family. For him to be alright. I know it's a request you get all the time from the people in here… and so maybe this is pointless just like theirs. But… maybe it's not. Just, help him out if you can._

 _Dean Winchester_


	5. Driving

A/N: Hey guys, just wanted to put out a trigger warning for this chapter. There's mentions of abuse and suicide.

The smell of the hospital was almost tattooed into the deodorant Dean wore, the smell so distinct and woven into the very fibers of his jeans and leather jacket it followed him wherever he went. The smell was left on the creeper back in the shop, swirling with the oil and grease and metal aromas that wound themselves around each part of the building. The smell clouded the stench of sex that usually hung around hazily in Dean's bedroom.

But, Dean didn't complain. The smell held him together when he was away from the nameless man. Distracted him at night, when all he craved was sleep and company. It comforted him on the long car rides he made every other weekend to visit Bobby. It reminded him of home and ease. He never felt alone when he had that smell wrapped around him.

There'd been some progress in the last couple of weeks. An eyelid here, a finger twitch there, an increased heart rate once in a thought it was looking up for his broken buddy.

The doctors had a different perspective.

They gave him a couple more days, maybe a week or two. Then they were going to pull him off oxygen, off support, off the medications… They didn't see a point to drawing out the inevitable any longer.

 _Inevitable_ , Dean scoffed to himself. His eyes were flashing across the empty two lane road that seemed to stretch into the horizon and beyond. He had a 3/4 full tank and had already made it into the country, away from the hospital, from the doctors, from the "inevitable".

His hands were gripping the steering wheel to the point they were white around the knuckles. His foot on the gas pedal nearly lay flat. The accelerating roar of the impala under his guiding hands was the only thing that kept his mind focused. That reminded him that he was still awake. Dreams like this never lasted long.

Screaming metallica would be blasting if he was just angry, but Dean was too mad, too impatient, too rigorously invested in the drive across the roads used only for tractors and occasional cars; music was only a distraction to the pain that had bubbled within his very veins. And though Dean's car was today's only occasional, he wouldn't stop until the gas tank was empty. Or till he imploded.

He hadn't realized how invested he'd been in this life that he'd so specifically affected. Dean's body was not accustomed to this aching desperation, this debilitating need, this potent inability to breathe.

When Jess came into the room, softer than usual, without sheets or a clipboard, Dean had assumed she was telling him something about Sammy. They'd been hanging out, and her scrubs were starting to smell of coffee, filed papers and dust, and less of the sterile cleanse of the hospital.

He'd stood abruptly, asking what was wrong. And she refused to meet his eye, refused to acknowledge that she was about to break his soul in two, refused to get sucked into the pain he was about to suffer. She'd told herself that this was better for him. That now, he could go back to his life before.

She'd said the words so softly, but hospitals are known for their quiet, and Dean didn't need it repeated. He'd sunk into his chair, the chair that had molded to the curve of his jeans, that had burger stains from dripping grease, that had oil from Dean's hair wedged into the grooves, that was more his bed than the one in his room. He'd taken three deep breaths.

Then in an instant he was gone, keys in hand, pushing past Jess, too impatient for the elevator, instead opting for the four flights of stairs. His jacket fallen to the ground between the chair and the bed was abandoned as he drove away, getting out of town, out of earshot of the deafening hospital and the terrors that lie inside.

Dean knew this was irrational, on some deep internal level of reasoning. He recognized that this man was a stranger. That he'd hit him with a car. That the reason he was here was Dean. That this man had never done anything for Dean, and there was no reason for Dean to be reacting as he was.

Yet, here he was. Speeding at incredible velocities down an empty stretch of road, trying just to clear his head, trying to wash away the incomprehensible scarring that this would leave upon his soul should this man die.

But, Dean wasn't a stranger to him, not after these weeks of bedside talks, of confessions, of prayers, of shared meals and thoughts, of one-sided gossip, of watching a relationship bloom between his brother and a nurse while the relationship his brother was in originally was shattering, of memories and fears, of hope.

All of it was going to amount to nothing.

The whispers of childhood beatings and neglect after his mother's death. His grateful refuges in the spare room of Pastor Jim's church, where Jim had laid cold cloths on the bruises and cuts.

The list of scars, the ones from Dad, then the ones from falling, then those from the car crash that had killed Dad only a couple years ago, and then those from the shop, too close to the welding torch, a sharp piece, a knife went screwy.

The worries about Sammy, about his life amounting to the same as Dean's, about his relationships. The worries about Bobby, homes, insurance, being able to get him to the hospital in time when he needs to. The worries about the shop, would it do well enough, Jo doing something amazing and getting married one day, and Ellen getting grandkids. About getting everything out of life.

The confessions, praying, lack thereof, confusion, all around inability to control his own life.

How he felt.

Dean had never felt like he mattered much, not to anyone besides Sammy. Even then, he was more of a burden than a support. Sammy had left graduate school to come help Dean, to get him back on his feet, and he was terrified about what that had done to Sam.

And this was just another example of how he'd broken a life, and been unable to fix it.

Dean never did anything good.

He almost ended it right there. Almost pulled over, laid down, grabbed the razor blades he'd hidden in the glove compartment so Sammy wouldn't find them, and done it.

But, when he pulled to the shoulder, the car slowing to a stop, the only thing that felt certain was the nausea boiling in his stomach amidst the terror and aching. He'd stumbled from the car and clung to the bumper as breakfast made its reappearance on the side of the road. And with it, he'd loosened the thoughts of suicide. Satiated them with the bile in his throat, that was suddenly accompanied by a series of sobs.

Unexpected, yet necessary, his body shook with the heaving breaths and the sputtering cries. Yells at the sky and pounding fists on the car till there was blood and cracked open knuckles. Only his unwatched breakdown and the wind made noise on this vacant road.

After a while, his breaths evened, his hands stopped bleeding, the wind stopped throwing taunts at his pain, and silence stretched across the plain.

And one thought reverberated through his mind: _You're going to lose that motherfucker in a few days._ And, soon, with a half tank of gas left, his foot on the pedal, his hands starting to reopen and blood trickling down his skin like rain on a window, he was speeding back towards the hospital.


	6. What Could've Been

Dean's heart thudded against the confines of his chest and his lungs heaved air that seemed thinner now. Running from his car to the doors of the hospital, achingly aware of the time, only half an hour left in visiting hours, he slowed in front of the receptionists desk, nodding a hello to Cherise, then sprinting the rest of the way to the elevator. He pressed the button, everything seemed to be moving with the lethargy of morning, though nightfall was well on its way. His impatience hadn't left him as he moved to the door to the stairs, opting for his own weight to slow him down than the creaking encasement of the elevator.

The hallway welcomed him with smells of syringes and sterile sheets and soft snores and squeaking wheels on nurses carts. His breaths started to slow and his heart waned to its natural pulse, his body moved with normality and everything calmed within him.

A few more steps, an easing breath, a coaxing hand on the door, and a gentle push. All was quiet in the room, soft beeps came from the heart rate monitor and both sets of breaths gently overlaid themselves until it sounded like the sea, ebbing and flowing with the tide, but not crashing and breaking, only gentle waves.

Dean watched the man asleep on the bed. His body was so much more put together than it had been a few weeks before. The cast on his arm had been removed and his leg cast had been replaced by a boot. The scratches were now only memories in Dean's mind, as were the bruises. The pristine skin of his arms seemed seldom to have touched sunlight or any other being that would have harmed it. His hands were calloused, and his fingers wore a thin line that differentiated the skin under his gloves and the skin exposed to air. His neck was taut, lines of shadow tracing his adam's apple and the creases ingrained from riding his motorcycle. A distinct definition of five o'clock shadow crept from his neck, across his jaw, and defined the soft cheekbones set into his face. His lips, his nose, the lax area between his brows with a memory of creases, all laid with perfection in an almost angelic fashion. And his hair… Dean had never seen hair so dark and so messy and so desirable.

Dean had never taken the time to study the man, to appreciate the richness of his skin, of his body, of the curves and scars sewn into him.

His chair beckoned him, his jacket lain across the arm with care. He sank into the comfort of the chair, so familiar and so natural it simply brought him further into his state of calm. But, then the pain, the heartwrenching inability to change the future or the past, the funeral dirge that had run through his head the whole drive home exploded from the cage Dean had deluded himself into thinking was locked. The feelings seeped into his bones, through his blood into each crevice and limb of his soul.

He swallowed down this new wave of pain, feeling the ocean ambiance of the room turn tumultuous and dangerous, waves now crashing and greater heights found with each new onset of storm. Dean leaned forward and put his head on the edge of the bed, his hands knotting themselves behind his head. He took sharp breaths, held them, then when he felt like he would explode, he whooshed his breath out all at once.

He'd planned for what he'd do when the man woke up. He'd gone over it countless times in his head, reciting the words like lines, giving the man new words, new sentences, new diction to fall off his tongue. He tried different personalities on the man in his rehearsals, one where he was a dick, another where he was overly gushy, a couple where he was just like Dean (but not as badass), and a few where he was a curious guy who seemed out of place on a motorcycle, but also couldn't be placed anywhere else sensically.

Dean would bring in flowers, the last batch, and he'd come in the room, set them down, and sit down in his seat. He'd flick the TV on and find the best movies, Rocky, Die Hard, Predator (though all these R-Rated movies on TV were almost not worth it, all the best parts were cut out)... and from the bed there'd be a soft, " _Could you turn that up?_ " And Dean would happily comply, then realize that this man, who Dean was convinced had brown eyes, was staring at the TV enraptured and not at the back of his lids.

And from there they become fast friends.

But, Dean knew that this was far from possible now.

"I don't want to lose you," Dean whispered, forcing the tears and sobs deep into himself, afraid to let them out, afraid of what it might do to him. He looked at the comatose man, looking for an answer as he did that first day he sat in this room, wishing that circumstances were different and that he could hate the man for making him pay some large quantity of money for "insurance" (what a scam). He watched him, painfully, disparagingly simply asleep, not tormented by his future and not plagued by his past. He simply slept, so peaceful.

In frustration, Dean grabbed the man's hand, shaking it, and hissing at him, "Why can't you see what they're going to do? They're going to let you die. They're going to take you away. Away from me. From Sam. From Jess and Ashley… Man, you can't let them. Please, please. Anything. I need something. I need you." He dropped the hand, and covered his face, unable to look at the coma patient anymore.

There was silence, not the comfortable one he'd come to be accustomed to, but rather, a silence so painfully vacant of noise it tore through Dean like a table saw. The breaths had stopped, the beeping had stopped, the noise of Dean's own heart was the only thudding sound he could hear.

Then, frantically, the music of life came shattering down around him. The breaths picked up in pace, the beeping seemed to hurry to the next one, and when Dean looked up, the eyelids of the man seemed to be dancing atop his eyes.

The fingers Dean had just released were now shaking.

The lips he'd stared at for hours, waiting for a word to slip past the teeth and the tongue and take refuge in Dean's ears, they trembled.

Dean, so entranced in what was happening, barely registered his hand grabbing the man's and holding it close. "C'mon, buddy, I know you're in there. You can do this."

He watched intently, the man's body seeming to shaking out all of the loose muscles, trying to find its way back to being alive, feeling its way back to familiarity with a body that's been empty for nearly a month. As Dean kept watching, panic started to set in. What if this wasn't normal, routine? He hurriedly reached for the call button, praying silently, the man's hand still trapped within both of Dean's.

Ashley burst into the room, Jess trailing her. They started asking questions and ordering each other to do things.

"What happened?"

"Check his pulse."

"When did this start?"

"Take the tubes out, he'll choke if he wakes up."

"What did you do?"

"He's sweating pretty hard."

"Is he still breathing?"

And then, finally, Dean heard Ashley's awestruck voice, "I think he's coming out of it."

Dean watched around the nurses' flurry, and suddenly his eyes were open, not brown, but blue. Blue like calm, like the sheets on Dean's bed, like the ocean he took Sammy to once, like the flowers at his bedside. They were blue. And they were staring straight at Dean.

Without thinking about it, Dean brought the man's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the knuckles that for so long had laid motionless on the side of the bed.


	7. Awake

A/N: Hey guys, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who's been patient with me thus far.I don't know if I'm going to post a chapter tomorrow, because I've got tech week and... wow life is slightly hectic right now. But, for sure on Friday. Anyways, I wanted to thank everyone who has favorited, followed, reviewed or otherwise been a support to me. You guys are fantastic and I'm eternally grateful for the wonderful encouragement you've given me. Also! This story broke my previous record of views earlier today, and I just wanted to say how awesome that was.

* * *

The man stared blankly at Dean who stared intently at the man.

The two nurses held their breaths as the man continued to look at Dean, a curious expression coming across his face. He let his head fall to the side, maintaining eye contact.

The room was frozen, a quiet enveloping all of them. Dean's lips were still pressed to the man's knuckles, the man still had his eyes trained on Dean, and nothing but the soft beeps from the monitor interrupted the calm.

The man's eyes flicked away from Dean's and instead inspected the lines of his face, the stubble on his jaw, the brows that arched above his brilliantly green eyes. Then his gaze settled on his hand that was trapped between two strong winchester hands. He furrowed his brows a bit, concentration written across his face like the comatose ignorance had been only moments ago.

The fingers that laid across Dean's hands twitched slightly, and the quiet dissipated with the stillness that had been so captivating.

"I can't believe you're awake," Dean choked the whispered words out.

"I think we need to call the doctor," Jess whispered to Ashley behind the two men, both still enraptured in the other.

"I've been waiting for you to wake up for a month. And now… you're finally awake."A grin spread across Dean's face, so wide and uncontainable it actually hurt his cheeks.

Ashley and Jess both moved from the wall, Jess heading to the door and Ashley heading towards the machines and the man. She crouched down next to the bed. "Good evening, sir," she flashed a smile to him, but he wasn't looking, still thoroughly invested in his hand and Dean's hands and Dean's face. "I'm going to give you a condensed rundown of the last few weeks. You were hit by a car while you were on your bike, there was an explosion and you hit your head against the cement and you suffered serious injuries. We brought you in-well, really, Dean brought you in. He couldn't call for an ambulance, so he brought you in himself. He probably saved your life." She sent a glimmer of a sympathetic face at Dean. "Anyways, then you had some surgery done, you were put into casts, and you've been in this bed ever since.

"Dean was here every day. All these flowers are from him. And that greasy, oily, leathery smell, that's from him too." She smirked at him, but then realized that her speech had gone unnoticed by either man. "Hey, sir, I know you just woke up, but, do you have a name?"

The man tore his gaze from Dean's to look at Ashley, and suddenly Dean felt like the world had been altered. There was more light, there was an air of health, of safety. He felt the muscles in his stomach unclenching and letting the oozing, agonizing emotions trickle out of him, seeping through his pores and leaving his small bubble of atmosphere that charged his soul.

"Your name?" She asked again.

The man stared at her, then his eyes found themselves captive to Dean's once again. Ashley groaned and stood. She walked to the other side of the bed and put her hand on Dean's shoulder, "Dean, could I have a word with you?"

He began to let go of the man's hand, and a worrisome panic settled into the blue.

"I'll be back, I promise." He patted the man's hand and guided his limb to the bed, laying the wrist, then the palm, then finally the fingers down as he would a sleeping child. He followed Ashley from the room.

She spun to face him. "I think he's mute. At least for right now. I don't think he remembers how to talk. It's a muscle. Tomorrow we'll start him on PT if he's still awake-"

"Still?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "I thought he just had to wake up and then this would all be over…"

"Dean, Coma patients are very unstable. But, now that we know he's alive, he's fighting, we won't take him off life support. You don't need to worry about that. But, what I do want you to worry about, is getting him to talk, helping him out. If he doesn't mind, you could come to his PT sessions. It's always better when someone is motivating you."

"So you want me to come and help him relearn how to walk, to talk, to eat…" Dean took a few short breaths. "I don't know… Ash, look, I…"

"Dude, don't ask me, don't tell me, don't offer me a backstory. All I was hoping was you'd come to support him." Ashley threw up her hands in defeat. "Oh, and encourage him to talk. Ask him questions. Try to get him to respond." She sighed, rolled her shoulders, and turned to go look for Jess and the doctor. "Oh, and maybe don't try to hook up with him in here. That'd just be awkward."

Dean rolled his eyes and said, "I'll try, but if he starts anything, I'll let him do whatever. He's been deprived for a month."

"Not with all that eye-fucking you've done to him… it was practically sexual harassment," Ashley murmured under her breath as she walked away.

Dean watched her walk away with his face screwed up in confusion. He shrugged, then walked back into the room. "Hey, bud, I got rid of the girls. You can stop playing dumb." He cocked a smirk and a wink towards the bed.

But the man wasn't staring at him. His lids were closed and he looked dead, comatose.

Dean had only been gone a minute or two.

"No no no no. Bud, you can't do that to me. I just got you. You're not supposed to go back into it," Dean said, anger growing between each words. Not at the man, but at Ashley for taking him away. At himself for walking away. At this God that had given Dean what he wanted only to snatch it away again.

He grabbed the man's face, wanting those eyes to peer into his soul, to search it, and to feel comforted by the welcomed invasion. He wanted to scream at the man, to tell him-

The man sucked in a huge breath, eyes fluttering open, scaring Dean with the suddenness. He let go, and the eyes that had pierced him for that moment, were now lost again to the darkness of closed eyes.

Dean stared curiously at his hands. He laid his hand atop the sleeping man's, and the twitching started up again. He pressed his other hand against the man's cheek, and with a soft lean, the man came to life.

"Dean…" the word was throaty, raspy and confused. It also came with a voice that Dean had never heard before. He stared at the man's mouth, watching the letters forced his lips open, and pull his teeth apart to allow the noise to leave.

"Yeah, buddy?" Dean crouched down to his level, keeping the contact of skin.

"Cas…" he said wearily.

"What?"

"Cas…"

Dean looked around warily. He wasn't sure what he meant. "Bud, I don't know what that is. Who that is… Is that… you?"

The man's head moved slightly, nodding. "Your name is Cas?" Dean smiled softly. "Well, Cas, do you know why you're awake? Why you wake up when I touch you?"

He stared at Dean, gauging him. He lazily traced the outline of his eyes, trying to count the eyelashes. Then he shook his head, no.

"Well that got us a hell of a lot further."

Cas offered a small smile, then leaned into Dean's hand more.

Dean watched the man, he looked so exhausted. Awake for mere minutes and already reality was taking it's toll on the man. His eyes lazily blinked, but the irises were trained on Dean, watching him. Dean slid into his chair, pulling close to the bed.

Dean wove his fingers through Cas's and his other hand locked itself into place in his unruly hair, then he laid his head on the side of the bed, atop the bars that had been used in case Cas had woken up and felt some incessant desire to thrash or throw himself off the bed.

Dean and Cas watched each other, eyes telling stories that could only be exchanged via souls.


	8. Fucked Up

**A/N:** Hey guys, sorry this is a little late (by about an hour in my time) I just lost track of time. (ALSO FOR ANYONE WHO SAW THIS WHEN IT WAS ALL CODE MUMBO JUMBO I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. I fixed it though.) I'm really glad that so many of you are sticking with me through all of this, and that many of you like this story as much as I do. (I actually think it's the longest story I've ever written, not just fanfiction, I'm usually more of a short story type of gal, not so much a long drawn out, 17000 chapters insane writer chick, but I'm pretty proud of myself right now because I've stuck with it so far.) Please, let me know what you're thinking about this chapter. It's going in a slightly different direction than I had pinned for it early in my process, however, I'm not hating it... So, let me knowww! Thank you for all of your reads, reviews, favorites and follows, you're all amazing. :) :)

* * *

The doctors couldn't explain it. Jess and Ashley couldn't explain it. Two thousand some odd years of science and experience couldn't explain it.

Sam wanted to call it "Soul Mates." Jo called it "cute." Dean wanted them to shut up. And Cas, he shrugged his shoulders, rolled his eyes, and called it "Fucked up."

None of them were happy with the situation. Jo and Ellen needed Dean back at the shop, Sam wanted to visit with Dean somewhere other than the hospital (not that he wasn't frequenting the hospital anyways and making sure all the beds worked), Cas didn't want to be stuck to Dean like a dog on a leash, and Dean didn't want to have to worry about someone's life being over every fucking time he had to take a leak.

But, there were upsides.

Cas's eyes were open. They gleamed every time they looked at Dean, even after he told him that he was the one who'd hit him. It was a different gleam, one with darkened corners, a bout of anger and an ache that went bone deep, but it was still surrounded by the gleam of his iridescent blue.

And, when Cas's eyes were open, he watched Dean. He got to see him laugh, got to watch his eyes flutter shut at the end of a long day, got to see the smile glistening across his face when Sammy came into the room, or the satisfied grin after he told a particularly good joke.

He also got to listen to Dean's voice, consciously. He'd heard it before, and perhaps that's why he wasn't astounded when he woke up, why he didn't feel uncomfortable around this man, because he knew him, knew his voice, and the rough feel of his hands was just an extension of his voice and just as familiar. But, awake, it was so much better. The stories were lively, they were animated with eye rolling and laughs and gestures.

But his voice it was so incredibly intoxicating. It lured Cas in with every word, each sentence more sensual than the last to him. Had Cas not been fighting off the coma, he surely would have fallen captive to the soothingly gritty tone that Dean always had.

Cas and Dean also got to explore the other's lives, find out about the other, inquire about pasts and presents and futures they'd planned, they'd forgotten or they'd somehow lost along the way.

Dean talked about his years in the military, mostly an escape from home once Sam had gotten into college. He'd spent six years in the military. He'd done a lot of building, a lot of design work, engine work, repair work. And, after four years doing that, he got moved into a special team, and two years later he was back home.

When Cas talked, it was shorter bursts. He would gather up the strength about one story, about one breaths length of plot, two breaths length of ideas, and three breaths lengths of words. Over a series of days, hours, Cas talked about how his family had threatened him when he'd come home with a tattoo. He got caught drinking with some buddies, they'd grounded him for half a year. He bought himself a motorcycle when he was 18, they'd called a tow truck (he got it back from the tow company with his own money and kept it at his neighbor's house, they were cool). At the end of senior year, he brought home a boy, Jimmy, simply to spite them; his parents hit him, threw him out and told him never to call or come by. In the end, he ended up really liking the guy and never missing his parents. He still rode his bike.

Dean talked about his Dad and Sammy. Talked about long nights in Pastor Jim's back room. Talked about long days in school, where Dean simply spent the day flirting and pissing off teachers. He still passed every class with a B, he was smart, despite what the teachers thought.

Cas listened.

They both wanted to know the other's stories far more than they wanted to share their own, but they felt comfortable on either end. Dean felt patient, as they sat together on the bed, side pressing together, classic rock playing from the bedside table and Cas's tired, shuddering breaths and the soft spoken, gravelly words sounding far more intriguing than whatever brilliant CD Dean had asked Jo to bring for him.

And, though this was far better than Cas being asleep, Cas being nameless, Cas being on deathrow...

This entire ordeal was taking a toll on them both. They felt exhausted all the time. Cas from the coma, Dean from sharing a sort of life force. Neither moved much. They risked Cas every time they weren't in contact.

And Dean felt responsible. Dean hated that this had happened to Cas. Not only was he comatose for near a month, his entire life whisking ahead without him, but now he was confined to wherever Dean went and wherever he was able to go. He couldn't walk on his own yet, even with Dean helping him, walking was simply out of the question.

So, they went to PT each day at three. Cas would be asked to do certain things, lift your right hand, now your left, pick up the red cup, pick up the green ball. Or say certain things, which, forgot, angel, trust. The nurse said they'd work their way up to more difficult things: walking, complex sentence structure, enunciation, navigating the body once again and recognizing needs of his system.

Dean was a required part of these sessions. He didn't wear shoes anymore, and sometimes not even socks. He would overlay his feet on Cas's, during the sessions, it was the only place that didn't really get in the way of all of the therapy happening.

The first day, Cas was practically asleep the whole session. He could hardly open his eyes. Dean had to pull his chair closer, press their legs flush together, in order for Cas to be somewhat awake. After a week or so of this, Cas was starting to be more awake.

The sessions are short, broken up into ten minute intervals, and after the ten minutes, Cas is drained. His muscles aren't taut, his body isn't ready, his face seems to melt into tiredness. He misses when he goes to pick things up, that is if he can get his hand up.

Dean can hardly stand to watch Cas struggling like this. It's , when Cas is resting, asleep on his bed, Dean sometimes winces when he thinks about it, how sad and terribly forlorn the man looks.

But, he's there, nonetheless. Not simply because he has to, but because he knows that every time Dean says Good going, bud, Cas will stammer a thanks, blush, and then pick up another ball with twice as much energy.

Ashley was right about the support, but Dean was damn glad she was wrong about him being a mute.


	9. Feathers And Flying

A/N: This is shorter chapter, sorry guys, but, my show is this week, so I'm not sure how much I'll be updating... however, I will when I can. But, once this week is done, I'm home free. :) I also wanted to let you know that if you've been reading this story for a while, I updated the first chapter and it's TONS better. You should go check it out. Nothing plotwise changed, but structure wise, whole new story. :) Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed and favorited, you guys are my inspiration and the reason I've stuck with this (aside from the fact that I've had this damn story rattling in my head for years). But, yes, I'm eternally grateful for all of you. :) Let me know what you think of this chapter.

* * *

"So then, I asked this chick to prom, okay? Her name was Sara. Sara Blake. And she was so fine." Dean had one arm wrapped around Cas's shoulders and the other miming her physical _fineness_. "She had black hair and brown eyes and she was smoking. I mean, Cas she coulda turned _you_ on." Cas chuckled and nuzzled his head onto Dean's shoulder more. "But, anyways, I asked her, and she turned me down."

"Ouch," Cas muttered sarcastically.

"No no, I wouldn't have cared much, I mean, girls were a dime a dozen. But, this girl, this Sara, she turned me down for _Sam_. Now, honestly, who would pick Sam over me?" He looked at Cas and raised his eyebrows. "You sure as hell wouldn't."

"Maybe. He's got…" Cas took a breath, talking and breathing at the same time was still something they were working on in PT. "Bigger hands."

"Oh shut up you pervert. My hands are plenty big, and you know what else is-"

"Knock, knock!" A trill voice came from the door. The boys fell silent, a smile etched onto both of their faces. Jess walked into the room with a pile of clothes for each of them. "Dean, since you're sort of stuck here, we thought you should just wear the scrubs too. It'll be easier for everyone." She flashed a smile at both of them and set the piles on the bed. "I'm going to assume you two can handle each other for a little while, I have other patients who don't have extra hands." She winked at them and waltzed out of the room. A second later and her head popped back in the doorway, "Oh, and Dean, Sam says hi."

"Nice of him to drop by," Dean muttered as he rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Jess."

"She's nice," Cas smiled as he said the words. Dean nodded.

"Yeah, I don't know, she's not my type. She's too… much."

Cas nodded. "I know."

Then they fell into silence. This silence was more tangible than any before. Major implications had been laid on the bed for them by Dean's brother's girlfriend. They both knew what she was asking. They both recognized the subtext it implied. They both knew it'd be weird.

Dean nodded sharply. "So, do you put on the left leg first or the right?" He leaned forward and picked up the pants for Cas.

"Shirts," Cas said sternly. Or as sternly as a recovering coma patient can manage. It was a soft word with only light air surrounding it, not the command of sternness or the fluttering breeze of laughter. It was just free.

"Fine, okay, don't get in a huff about it," Dean humored him. "Shirts first... At least I'm getting to second base today." His face lit up with a smirk and a wink.

Cas rolled his eyes.

Dean grabbed the end of Cas's shirt and tugged it up over his head. He was expecting something grandiose to happen within him, a sudden immediate arousal, a quick longing, a wonder of what his shoulders would feel like under his hands. But, nothing like that came to mind.

The first comment off Dean's tongue was, "You have a tattoo?" A brilliant quip of wit that Dean Winchester very cleverly offered.

Cas nodded.

On Cas's chest, starting on the right, there was a feather, black and blue like his eyes and hair. It was as if they had spilled onto his chest and inked their colors into his skin. Halfway up the feather, the edge began to fall off, and each barb that fell, became a bird that was flying across his chest. Some blue like his eyes, some black like his hair.

Dean reached forward with his hand, and traced the outline of the feather, feeling the small jolt of touching Cas like a minor run in with an electrical outlet. He lightly let his finger drag across the skin, feeling the inked area, and following the path of the birds.

"This is awesome, man."

"Thanks."

"What's it for?"

Cas shrugged. "I wanted… to get out…" His breaths were slowly seeming to fit more between words instead of forcing his words between breaths. "I wanted… to fly…"

"Nah, man, heights really aren't my thing. I'd rather stay down here on Earth with your crazy ass." Dean smiled, his finger still running across his chest, the birds seeming to lead him.

"I love… heights… I love going… fast…"

"Hence, the motorcycle."

"Yeah… where is it?" Cas looked at Dean with suddenly panicked eyes. His breath caught in his chest and Dean could feel the labored rises and falls shudder to a halt under his fingertip.

Dean met Cas's eye, "Your bike?"

Cas nodded, his eyes colored with fear moreso than blue.

"It's alright, man, breathe. I have it." The air fell out of his mouth like water burst through a dam. "I was going to surprise you, have it ready when you woke up, and offer it to you as a peace treaty."

"You fixed it?" Cas asked, the fear melting into wonder. His face seemed to glisten, stars of appreciation spilling out of his pores and beading on the radiant glow of perfect contentment that lit his face.

Dean shrugged. "It was pretty messed up, dude. I really considered throwing it out and just building you a new one from scratch, but, I figured it had some sort of sentimental value or something and that's why you were still riding a rust bucket around. But, now that I've gotten my hands on her, oooh, she's a babe. She's got a sleek paint job, a nice cleaned up engine, brand new piping. She's a fucking hot ride."

Cas stared at Dean, awe and adoration and happiness clear on his face.

"Okay, okay, enough with the googly eyes. Chill, man." Dean chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, pulling his hand away from Cas's chest. "Here, let's get your shirt on, then we can watch Die Hard. Sound good?"

Dean lifted Cas's arms to help him get into the shirt, and as they fell back down, pulled down by gravity and the weight of bone, Cas wrapped them around Dean, pulling on him just enough for Dean to lean into the hug. Dean slowly put his arm around Cas as well, patting his shoulder.

"Dean… thank you…. So much…" Cas's words were hardly a whisper, soaked with tears and emotions that didn't overflow. He knotted his hand in Dean's hair, clutching him with impressive force that was gaining strength with the extra contact of cheek to cheek and arms on neck.

"Yeah, man, it was the least I could do, trust me. It was no big deal. Promise."

But, regardless of how much of a "no big deal" it was, the two sat there, wrapped around each other for a long while, soft whispers of gratitude and gentle chuckles replacing the action-packed music score and russian accents of Die Hard for a short while at least.


	10. Week by week

A/N: Good God, guys. I'm so sorry this is so late. I don't know if I'll have another chapter up till next week. I know. I promised daily. But, my show is very time investing. Plus APs are coming up. Which, I'm sure you all know is the most fun thing ever and not at all full of ridiculous teacher bullshit. Woohoo. -_- ANYWAYS. I actually like this chapter, and I hope you guys do too. Let me know what you think. Every read, review, favorite, follow... they're all like christmas for me. I'm like *fangirls* people actually _like_ me. And I get super excited. But, I'm super excited all the time. So... I really don't know what to tell you. Anyways. Thank you for all the support and understanding. I love you all!

* * *

A week went by, Cas slowly having more and more energy, needing less and less of Dean's touches, becoming more of his own person, not needing to worry about his breaths clashing with his words or his thoughts crashing into one another until all that was left was a deafening roll of letters that came out in an incoherent mess. His mouth listened to his head, just like his fingers started to listen to his hands, and his hands started to listen to his arms.

He only needed one of Dean's legs during PT to stay awake. He only needed an arm across his shoulder to keep him sitting up straight. He could concentrate for fifteen minutes, for twenty. Dean was starting to take a stopwatch to the sessions and just see how long Cas could go for. It was a competition against himself, trying to break his last record.

They went on like that. Dean offering congratulations when Cas did, giving him tips for improvement when he didn't, and clutching him tight when he could feel the fatigue of the coma creeping through his veins and through the synapses in his brain, feeling like he was beginning to short-circuit. He'd begin to crumble, one side starting to collapse, and Dean would suddenly envelope him completely in his arms, his body, his legs, anything to keep him from fading again.

Another week passed and Cas was standing, Dean behind him, arms around his waist, like Jimmy had wrapped himself around Cas when he'd taken him for a ride on his motorcycle. Dean had his head on Cas's shoulder, his soft breaths leaving marks invisible to the eye but iridescent to Cas's heart. Dean's hands on his stomach, on his chest, holding him flush against Dean's front. Cas could feel the warmth melting off of Dean's skin like a sun clutching him for dear life.

Then, at night, when they laid in bed together, Cas curled up into Dean's side, Cas would read aloud. Sam would bring books, so of course they were old, dusty and boring as hell, but when Cas read it, his voice grinding out the letters like a feral animal gnawing on a stringy carcass, it brought life to it that Dean had never heard before. Cas was hungry to have the words in his mouth and the story in his head, and that animated the books into movies that Dean only listened to.

The next week Cas and Dean could walk down the hall together, their arms wrapped around each other's waists, their sides flush against each other and laughter pouring out of their lips like warm morning coffee poured into a mug. They spent a lot more time holding each other, whispering secrets they didn't want the nurses to know, offering life stories, speaking of the grave and the gallant times. They didn't sleep as much, but instead went for walks, exploring the building together, Dean helping Cas far more than anyone could notice without looking for it.

At this point, Dean was beyond feeling self-conscious. Everyone on the floor knew about them. Reporters had come in. Doctors and scientists from around the world had come in to experiment, to test, to ponder, to 'd taken samples of their blood. They hadn't gotten back to Cas and Dean.

They spent much of their time, wordlessly staring at each other, because now that Cas had his words back, it didn't seem so desperate to say as much as he could. And, Dean had never been one for words, preferring silence, music, and loud action scenes to all else Anyways, everything needing to be said was etched into the creases of their faces, the denim blue of Cas's eyes, the ivy green of Dean's, the worried furrow of their brows, the crinkle of their lips.

And the week after, they caught themselves in a heated debate about whether cars or motorcycles are better. The night shone through the window and the sheets curled around their bodies, their legs tangled, their arms wrapped around each other. The quiet bustle of a hospital at midnight strewing a light din over their muffled argument, their voices only hissing through smiling lips.

"You can store dead bodies in the trunk of a car, if you get in a hot mess, where are you gonna hide the body? Huh?"

"Only you would find yourself in such a predicament."

Dean shook his head, a soft chuckle resonating through his chest and tickling Cas's.

"Sure, Cas."

Cas cast a gentle look at Dean, their eyes meeting briefly for a moment, Dean's reflecting the moonlight, then closed his eyes, sleep tugging on his consciousness. But Dean didn't want to go to sleep.

"Hey… Cas…"

After a pause, Cas said, with warning and exhaustion wrapping their tendrils around the word, "Dean."

Dean stilled, silence creeping across the room. Cas sighed and pulled closer to Dean, tapping his back with his fingers, a silent gesture they'd developed to let the other know they were listening in the dead of night when only they and the moon and the midnight nurses were awake. When the world reduced to the light through the window and their chests moving up and down in time.

Dean took a shaky breath, the breath glossing Cas's lips. Cas could feel the heat of Dean's face on his own. He felt a soft tingle of excitement trickling through his stomach. Cas stopped breathing for a moment, anticipation building in his bones. Then Dean's nose touched Cas's. And in a quiet moment, they both laid there, eyes closed, lips parted, breath exchanging in the small space between their mouths.

Cas tapped Dean's back, and Dean leaned forward.

They kissed quickly, and then Dean pulled away. His eyes open now. Watching Cas.

Cas could feel his eyes on him. Watching him. Looking for a reaction.

In that moment, Dean felt a surge of worry. This was so similar to the devastating situation he'd been in only weeks ago, before they'd found that Dean was the cure. But, what if now, he was gone. Gone again, gone for sure, and that's what had sent him. A death inducing kiss from Dean Winchester no less. He'd always thought it'd be Sammy to let his girl die in his arms, not that Dean's… person would die in his. He felt the familiar ache in his stomach as he watched the unmoving features of the man, needing something, anything. Otherwise they'd both be on their way to that two way staircase of the sky, both of them heading opposite directions.

The silent seconds ticked by, Dean's panic rising every second.

Then Cas moved, nestled closer to Dean and brought their lips together again. This time they moved together, the two men on the bed. They seemed to have a dance choreographed from the simple ease it all happened in. The movement of hands, the situation of legs, the tango of their lips. Dean's hand finding it's way to Cas's hair, like it had the first night Cas had stared into his eyes. Cas's hand traced the muscles of Dean's arms. They pulled together, grasping for more and more of each other, Dean guiding his lips across Cas's.

Cas parted his lips, and swiped his tongue across Dean's lips which were already open in response. He smiled, as Dean used his free hand to trace the five o'clock shadow that seemed ever present on Cas's face.

Then, Cas pulled away, laying his forehead on Dean's and breathing with a slight lilt. "Dean, after these last weeks… I just wanted to say-"

"You're welcome," Dean said as he hungrily grabbed Cas's neck and pulled him closer.


	11. Morning

A/N: Hey guys, I swear to god this chapter was longer, it was a bitch to write. Also, my show is over :( :( :( but now I have more time, so hopefully I'll be back to dailies relatively soon. TRIGGER WARNINGS: Abuse and worthlessness (? I don't know if this is an actual one, but it seemed legitimate... so I included it.) Thank you guys for being so patient with me over this last week. It's been trying on everyone. I actually really like this chapter, it's got a lot of backstory. I'll probably go through and clean up some of the later paragraphs some other time, but let me know what you think. :) :) Every review, favorite and follow inspires me to keep writing. Thank you for all of those who have given me that.

* * *

When the morning broke through the window, casting light upon the night's follies, the two men stirred slowly. Dean before Cas, him watching the man sleep. This was so different from comatose Cas. This man had pupils flicking beneath his eyelids, soft breaths coming from his lips free of help from ventilators, his mouth twitched at the corners and his fingers clutched Dean possessively, even in sleep.

Dean could feel the handful of fabric caught in Cas's hand pulling at the fabric of the rest of his shirt, their night's wonder not amounting to much more than a couple hundred hungry kisses. But, that was enough. Dean didn't feel rushed, or hurried, or like he needed more. It was the right amount.

The right amount of Cas pressing against him. The right amount of body between his arms. The right amount of lips and teeth and tongue, swiping and whirling and sucking. The right amount of thanking and whispering and coaxing. The right amount of Dean; the right amount of Cas.

And, never before had Dean felt like that. Especially in the early morn when he got a sober look at the girl… the guy… He'd never feel satisfied. It always felt wrong. Felt insufficient. Felt negligible, as if the night had meant nothing. Which it did.

It usually cost him a line and a well timed wink, a spot in his car and the absence of his own bed, but nothing significant. He'd never had anything to girls Dean had sent a smoulder at across the bar, who melted at his first touch, they were temporary. They were all so immensely temporary.

But Cas wasn't. Cas was something Dean had worked for, had built something with until this seemed the only rational way to continue their existence. It wasn't close enough when they laid together and told stories of nights past, or when they walked, wound around each other, and whispered jokes that only they would understand. It wasn't enough to know the terrors of their dreams or the worries of the mornings; it wasn't enough to wake up next to each other and shrug it off and blame their closeness on this disease that made them rely on each other.

Everything before had simply been impulse, been lust spending the night at someone's house and waking to find rays of annoyance and inferiority burning the pseudo passion of the night before. It'd all been because Dean needed it at the moment. Never because he'd worked for it. Never because there was a relationship that had been building for months, whether it be conscious or not. Never because he actually cared. That'd never happened before.

Except with Cassy. The girl Dean had loved, once upon a time.

She'd challenged him to be more, to do more, to act in a way that offered more room to those around him. So he wasn't so closed off and reserved. He wasn't just fighting to keep his mind off the past, his mind off of Sammy who left for college, his mind off his Dad…

She'd taught him how to be around other people, how to let people get close to him.

It'd been an experience that Dean had never known. In school he'd never been one for friends. He had work to do at home, he had a brother to take care of, he had a job to bring in money his Dad just happened to "forget" about. School was a waste. It was pointless and so much of it was simply manipulating the kids into thinking like drones, not that it was hard for either Winchester. Sam had taken to it better than Dean, and he was that kid in the math class two grade-levels above where most people were and the one who read history textbooks for leisure. Dean was just taking what he needed to pass.

But, with all the switching around, Sam ended up with piles of textbooks that he hungrily gleaned information from while they drove from motel to motel, following Dad's work wherever it went. And while Sam was building up a healthy library under the backseat of the impala, Dean was building up an ignorance for dumbasses and an arsenal of muscles under the sun soaked leather jacket he wore without fail. Sam was arming himself with knowledge, but Dean had other things to worry about.

And not just the jackasses at school that'd pick on the new kids, the one that was too smart for his own good and the one that was flirting with all their girls, and what's more, fucking the girls. Dean had had a budding share of black eyes that didn't come from the parking lot behind school, a string of bruises across his abdomen that wasn't from being kicked by boys his age, cut lips that didn't come from a hand that still had the innocence of youth.

There'd been another hand, another body, another angry row of violence that'd shaped Dean's body into the way it was now. It'd been accompanied by the voice that told him he was worthless, he didn't take care of his brother well enough, he didn't deserve to eat. It had the voice of a man that had once sung him lullabies. It looked like the creature that had once been a father, a husband, a human.

But, all of that pain had isolated Dean, forced him to believe the words that were tossed from his father's mouth like presents, like compliments. As if Dean was supposed to be gracious the man had said anything at all to him. And getting close to people didn't seem like the best idea.

Especially when those who were close to him got hurt, hurt him, or forgot that he existed once he and his family left the town.

So _close_ was only something he used to describe how far away the next town was.

Until he met Cassy. She was the commander in charge of getting the dickweeds to be men at the end of their ten week bootcamp. She fucked him up every day, just like she did to the other fifteen guys in their were all in training to be an equipment mechanic, but only the best would make it.

She pushed them all. She barked orders. She told them how they could make themselves better. She always gave them the truth. She talked about the country and how great it was. And, she never told them they were worthless.

She also didn't accept when Dean asked her out the first time, or the second, or the third.

But, Dean still came every day, was the first one there, already stretching before the long day earlier than many of the others were awake. He would go for an extra mile at the end of the day. Pushing himself to do more, to push more, to impress her. And at the end of the day, he'd lean against the wall of the barrack next to her while she scribbled notes onto a clipboard, and he'd cock a grin, try to catch his breath, and ask "So, how bout that date?"

And one day, it was enough. And she said yes.

And then it was all secret kisses in barracks, claiming he'd fallen and cut himself and she had to inspect the wound, late night fuckings in her quarters-separate from the guys. And it was three years of that.

Eventually it became public knowledge, once Dean had made it into the program. And they were both happy. Happy being a relative term. Happy meaning they didn't scowl when they shared a bed. Meaning Cassy didn't have to worry about guys fucking around with her because they knew they'd have to deal with Dean, who, though he was in engineering and mechanics was still one of the toughest motherfucker on the base. Meaning Dean had someone he could hold onto when the heaviness of this _murdering_ got to him.

They spent the nights clutching each other, either in desperation because a day around testosterone builds up and eventually they both needed a release, or they'd hold each other as if letting go would mean certain death. They felt exposed when they weren't near each other at night, knowing that the other had their back, regardless of what the circumstances were.

And, to Dean, that was love: Clutching desperately, quiet fuckings, someone to hold, and a familiar body.

Later on in that third year, Cassie and Dean both got picked for a mission, a clandestine mission of espionage and secrecy. The two, along with 5 others, were tasked with getting into the information of Iran, and finding blueprints of nuclear weapons or other pertaining information. They hoped to avoid a war, and this was exactly what that was for.

Kevin and Dean were in charge of building, designing and maintaining machines and such, Anna and Gabe were in charge of firearms and combat, Cassy and Chuck were in charge of intelligence and the execution of the actual espionage, and Naomi ran the whole unit. They got placed in the middle of Iran after a year of building up, gathering info and generally preparing.

And then he'd fucked it up.

Dean had blown his cover, and along with his, everyone elses'. A shot came from a rooftop, and it hit Cassy, though it was very likely that shot was meant for Dean. And she was gone. Bleeding out on the pavement, clothes ripped, a fire down the street in a trash barrel for the bums with nowhere else to be.

More shots rained down with increasing accuracy, and as the spray of bullets descended on the unit, one-by-one they all fell. Even Dean, who still had a scar on his calf from where the bullet hit him. Then once they'd all stopped moving they were left for dead and the street cleaners to come pick up in the morning.

Dean had crawled over to Cassy, her body mangled and caked in blood. Her beautiful face, gone. Her hair matted with the crunchy coating. The girl Dean had loved, was now lifeless on the pavement. He hadn't been fast enough. He hadn't been able to save her. Or any of the other persons.

Kevin was dead. Gave was dead. Anna was dead. Naomi was dead.

And Dean had never found Chuck's body. He'd run, the dog tags from each of his team wrapped around his wrist like a sacred object.

He'd gotten everyone killed. He'd ruined the mission.

Just like he ruined everything.

He was worthless.

And everything around him got hurt.

But now this man, with black hair and blue eyes and pale skin and a smile that could melt the sun, he thanked Dean for everything. He kissed him and told him he was so grateful to have him at his side. He held him in a different desperation than Dean had held Cassy, it was one that was desperate to not lose the other, not to have the other, but to not lose them to eternal sleep, to death, to devastation. He told Dean about his life, his woes, his worries. He let Dean tell what he wanted and didn't press for more. He hoped for the best for Dean, and wished for more for him. He held Dean's hand and told him that everything was alright, that Dean didn't need to worry, that Dean mattered. He pressed his hand against Dean's back to make sure his heart was still beating. He cared about Dean.

And Dean, in an instant, realized that this caring was not simply a casual care, nor a brotherly protection, it was… love. Real, honest love.

Cas's eyes began to flicker open, and without hesitation, Dean leaned forward, pressed his lips to the waking man's and whispered, "Thank you."


	12. Everything I Didn't Tell You

A/N: Hey guys! This is a longer chapter (at least longer for me, it's the second longest in the whole story so far. :) :) ). I don't know what's been up with me lately, but *shrugs* this story kind of has been darker lately. That's alright. TRIGGER WARNINGS: Abuse, Homophobia, and Negligence. Thank you for all of your constant support, you wonderful people, if I haven't gotten back to your reviews, don't worry I'm working on it. :)

* * *

Sam laughed.

"You're _gay?!_ " He fought for air. "I mean, I could have told you that years ago. But, I'm glad you figured it out." He wiped away imaginary tears from laughing so hard. "Look, Dean, ever since that Jack kid in high school… I knew."

"I'm not _gay_ , I'm bisexual. It's different." Dean's hand was tangled in Cas's, while Cas's other hand was holding up a book, earbuds in, pretending like he couldn't hear anything.

"Do you like guys?"

Dean gave Sam a pointed look. "Sometimes."

"Shut up, Dean. You're gay. It's like every other guy. It's the same with girls. You don't like every girl, just the ones that are hot. And, I'll give it to you, you picked a guy that was pretty good looking."

"Now who's the gay one?"

"Um, no, you're still the one fucking the guy you hit with a car. I, on the other hand, have a sexy nurse who happens to be a woman. Anyways, you're gay. I get it. You don't need to defend yourself. I'm not going to fight you." Dean looked at the intertangled hands in his lap, silently rubbing his thumb over the sensitive skin on the back of Cas's hand. "Dean, dude, I'm not gonna disown you. I've known about this for… forever. I just wanted you to tell me in your own time."

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed when Dean didn't respond.

"Dean, hey, man, what's up?"

Dean nodded, breathing deeply, he worked over his tongue in his mouth, then said, "I don't want you to be fucking happy about this, Sam. I want you to tell me that I'm doing something wrong. That I shouldn't be like this. That I shouldn't like him, I shouldn't kiss him, I shouldn't fucking want him in the same bed as me. It doesn't even matter that we're not fucking right now, I don't care, because I know that that will come later when he's okay, when I'm okay. Because we…" He paused, unable to finish his heated and hissed sentence, "But, you're just telling me that this is _okay_?"

Sam stared at Dean incredulously. "Um… yeah. This is okay. Dean, this is more than okay. It's… normal? It's not something you should be ashamed of, it's just who you are."

"It's not something I should be ashamed of? For fuck's sake, Sam," Dean glared at his brother, words spitting from his mouth like flames. "Do you really remember Jack from high school? Do you?"

Sam shrugged, his body twitching like he was searching for the answer deep within himself, incoherent words stuttering from his lips.

"No, you fucking don't. That boy was a fucking angel. He was star of the football team, but he hung out with me. He'd spend lunch with me by the theatre, where no one judged you and no one looked twice if you were eating alone. And, one day, he somehow he convinced me, the flirtatious loner, to come to a game. Of course, I brought you, too. But, you just stayed in the car, you had 'homework'." Dean sucked in a sharp breath.

"So, it was all fine. All good. They were doing really well. And, at half-time he comes over to the fence, and calls me down and asks how I think he's doing. I say he's doing better than the fat fucks out there whose 'muscle' jiggled more than D-cup tits. He tells me not to leave right after the game he wanted to hang out for a little bit.

"They lost the game in the end, and Jack came off the field heated as hell. He's throwing his helmet and making threats under his breath directed towards both his teammates and the other team. Then he makes it to the other side of the field and he looks over and he sees me. And he fucking stopped. He stopped swearing. Stopped being pissy. He walked over, ignoring his teammates, his coach, telling them he had some shit to deal with.

"And, I realized then that he was gonna kill me. Or at least try to. He was gonna fucking push me under the bleachers and murder me because he couldn't manage his anger. And he came by, wrapped his arm around my shoulders and tugged me towards the bleachers. He said, _Damn I'm glad you're here, Winchester._ And it was already going through my head. I could take him without the pads on. I just had to get them off, then I could whoop his ass, easy.

"As soon as we were out of sight of the public, he turns to me, and I've already got my fist ready, then he fucking plants one on me."

Dean shook his head, his hand clenching ever tighter around Cas's, who didn't even pretend to read anymore.

"And, I'm just so surprised I don't do anything to stop it." Dean swallowed in disgust. "And, lucky for us, Jack's buddy saw us, just as Jack was going in for more. Then it fucking spread like wildfire.

"There were rumors of us fucking in the back of my car, in the locker room, in his bedroom, in the library. People painted _faggot_ across his locker. I didn't use one, so they just wrote it on the car. You didn't know but I left school early that day and got that shit fixed before Dad could see it, before you could. They cornered me between classes one day, six or seven of the fuckers. They told me I was Satan's spawn, they told me they'd kill me, they'd kill you, because you were of the same heritage as me and therefore just as much a threat to the heteronormative bubble they'd created for themselves.

"Then they just started wailing on me. I don't think I've ever been beaten so badly. The only reason they stopped was one of their girlfriends started shrieking when they saw that I was the one on the ground at their feet. I'd fucked her the month before, and she wasn't over me," Dean cocked a wry smirk, then returning to his heated tone, he continued, "A teacher had walked by before, Mr. Aleckson, and he'd looked down when the boys stopped for a moment, he saw it was me, gave me a swift kick to the gut and walked away, then they'd continued.

"Fucked up, right? Yeah. Then, to make matters better, Dad found out. God only knows how, but he fucking found out." Dean paused, omitting the gory details of his Dad's screaming, boozed breath, and the hitting. The blood Dean left on the pavement, and that he later washed off the side of the car, the terrifying inability to defend himself. The bruises that formed where earlier that week the boys had decided to make a collage of colors across his body. "We left the next day.

"We left one of your textbooks in that motel, Sammy, and that's the one thing I really regret about that. We fucking left your german textbook. You'd just gotten it. You were really looking forward to reading that textbook, Sam. And, I'm so sorry about that."

Sam stared at Dean with wide eyes, an angry frown stretching across his lips, "You're sorry about a textbook? Dean, you got assaulted, sexually and physically, not to mention psychologically."

"Those are a lot of big words, Sam. I never read those textbooks, you know that right?"

"Stop talking about the goddamn textbooks. I don't care! I care about you! I care that this all happened when you were just a teenager and it's not fucking fair."

"Life isn't fair, Sam. And, I'm not complaining. I never did."

"Why not? Why didn't you ever talk to me about this? I just thought we left because Dad's job was calling him away."

"That's what we told you, Sam. In the backseat, curled up with a textbook as a fucking pillow, my jacket as a blanket, what else were we supposed to fucking tell you? Your brother kissed a guy and kind of liked it and now the world is trying to make him regret every decision he's ever made in his whole life and made him afraid of that feeling? Is that what you wanted us to tell you?

"Or did you want Dad to tell you that he didn't know what to do with a sort of gay son and so he just acted like I didn't exist for a month. And I had to enroll myself in school. I had to make sure that I worked for myself. He almost fucking left me, had you not realized you'd left your goddamn picture of mom on the dresser he would've.

"Or maybe you wanted to hear about how Jack committed suicide? It was the day after we left town. We'd been in the shit together, regardless and during that week we'd avoided each other for the most part, but at lunch we'd both head to the theatre and we'd make out or we'd tell each other how sorry we were? And then I didn't come to school. He wrote my name in his fucking note. He wrote: _Dean, I truly loved you, and I never meant for this to happen. I'm so sorry._ You wanted to hear about that?

"Did you want me to tell you I was a fuck up and you shouldn't like guys, _ever_ and you shouldn't ever let anyone close to you because what if they turn out to be just trying to get into your pants and they happen to be a guy and then your fucked over? Did you want to hear that? Sam you were 13. You'd never even kissed a girl. I wasn't going to fucking burden you with my shit."

"But, now…" Sam pressed.

"No one has ever been okay with me like this. No one has ever fucking been okay with me. With me being… gay, bi, whatever the fuck I am." The tears welled in Dean's eyes. "Sam, I don't know what to do when people don't try to fight me. When they don't pretend like I don't exist. When they don't act like I'm some sort of plague. I only know how to deal with the negative shit. So… don't just be okay with this. Please, Sam." It was a desperate plea, one that Dean hardly whispered.

The hand in his twitched to life, and clutched Dean's hand tightly. And Cas said, "Dean Winchester, shut the fuck up. Don't make an enemy of your brother. He loves you, and that's all he's offering. Love, compassion and an understanding only brothers are capable of offering."

Cas forced Dean's chin towards him. "Look, we've all been through shit. You and I included. But, that happened. This is happening, right now. I'm not Jack. And Sam's not the boys who beat you, nor is he your father. And you are not the Dean Winchester from that story. You're a different man now, and you're not allowed to continue to wallow in this past that you've held onto for so very long. It's not fair to the rest of us. The ones who are here, who care about you.

"Dean Winchester, you like me. And I like you. And that's all there is to it. Regardless of everyone else's opinions. Until you can accept that, you'll never be able to accept yourself. And, I refuse to live in lies. You should know more than anyone how horribly that carves your very soul from your flesh. You should be able to recognize the pain that it coils around your heart and your mind, guilt wracking through your bones and between your organs.

"Don't tell him that he can't be okay with this. That's his choice, not yours. Whether you want him to or not is insignificant to his opinions." He lifted the hand that was still ensnared in Dean's clutching fingers and he brought it to his face. "I know that it's hard to accept that not everyone is like that. That you can't predict the pain and the relief, but when it comes around, you have to take it, otherwise you might lose yourself. Don't lose yourself."

Sam watched this ordeal go down with widening eyes, never having heard Cas speak so eloquently and for such a long period. He hardly breathed at all during his scolding of sorts. And Sam watched as Dean melted under the blue eyed gaze of a man who truly loved him. The words were so much more perfect than any that Sam would've been able to conjure up.

"Yeah, man, you know I love you," Sam said, awkwardly punching Dean's thigh.

Dean flicked his eyes between Sam and Cas, then finally with a sigh, "Can we be done with the goddamn chick flick shit now? I'm exhausted. And I want a burger." He leaned back onto the pillows and grabbed Cas's book from his lap, _Hamlet_ , and began to skim over the elizabethan language that was far too dense for his tired eyes.

Sam smiled and offered to get them all burgers.

Once he was gone, Cas cuddled against Dean, his head on the taut shoulders of the life weary man. He took a gentle breath that meant he was going to start talking, and Dean hurriedly began to read,

" _Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer_

 _the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,_

 _Or to take arms against a sea of troubles_

 _And, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep-_

 _No more-and by a sleep to say we end_

 _The heartache and the thousand natural shocks_

 _That flesh is heir to-'tis a consummation_

 _Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep-_

 _To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub,_

 _For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,_

 _When we have shuffled off this mortal coil-_ "

Cas grabbed the book from Dean's hands, and set it on the bedside table next to the fresh flowers Dean had bought earlier when they'd gone walking through the hospital together. "Enough talk of that. I'm bored of this tiresome ruse of suicide, understand, Winchester?"

Dean nodded softly.

"Look, I just found you, this earthly plane and spiritual existence bringing us together like fortune brought has brought together countless souls over the centuries. So, stop speaking of losing you. I don't want to lose you. And I won't let you lose me to sleep or death anytime soon either," Cas said firmly. "I'm not that easy to get rid of. I promise."


	13. Draw Four

A/N: SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE! Ugh, I had so much going on these last couple of days (It was my birthday yesterday and the day before I had a party... so that was part of it.) and I just haven't been able to write this. I knew what I wanted to do with this chapter, but the big part of it didn't even happen. So like... the fuck, Morgan? Sigh. Whatever. Anyways. Thank you to everyone who's favorited, followed, reviewed and otherwise supported me in writing this. Sorry I kind of dropped off the grid for a little bit there. I REALLY hope you guys like this chapter (because I love it. :)). As always, let me know what you guys think! Thanks for sticking with me. :)

* * *

"Uno!" Dean shook the lone card in front of Cas's face, a smirk lacing his lips. A few months ago he wouldn't have even considered opening the pack of Uno cards, vehement on the fact that these weren't real cards and were simply a waste of paper products, but after spending months confined to a hospital with few options, Uno had become increasingly appealing. This was now the sixth game they were playing that day.

Cas had a deceiving innocent, hurt look on his face as he flicked his eyes between his own spread of three cards to Dean's cocky smirk and his sole card. He huffed a breath, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "I'm out of options, Dean."

"Then draw, buddy," Dean chuckled, ready to claim the crown for the first time today.

Cas shook his head again, "No, I just don't want you to hate me." A grin spread across his face as he put down the wild draw four card. Dean's jaw fell lax and defeat spread across his features.

"Just once, Cas," Dean said grumpily. "I'd like to win just once."

"But, Dean, if I didn't give my whole effort, you'd feel the win was unearned and therefore wouldn't count. So, by me playing as such, I'm giving you more opportunity to truly beat me."

Dean rolled his eyes and drew four.

The game continued; Cas won.

Dean threw his cards onto the bed. "I give up," he growled, laying flat on the bed, his head hanging over the edge.

Cas's fingers walked up Dean's legs which hung over his own. "You give up?" Cas asked innocently, his fingers tracing swirling patterns just under Dean's knees.

Dean's breath hitched. "Hell yeah." Cas's hand was on Dean's thigh. "I'm done with you beating me." Cas kneaded the loose muscles of Dean's legs and worked his way out from under them. "When we get out of this hospital-" One of Cas's hands were on Dean's hip and the other was sneaking under Dean's shirt. Dean took a shuddering breath. "I'm going to burn them…"

"Aw, but, Dean, I like this game." Cas met Dean's eyes, Cas's sparkling with something akin to a high and Dean watched as Cas prowled ever closer to his mouth. Cas's legs now straddled Dean, both hands pressed up under his shirt, exploring the taut abs that Dean still did sit-ups for every morning, Cas sitting on his feet.

"I might be having second thoughts…" Dean said without assurance, his focus primarily on the roaming hands in his shirt, and the growing sensations below his waist.

Cas pulled his hands away and sat up, sitting directly on Dean's crotch. He smiled sneakily and tugged his own shirt off, then, grabbed the hem of Dean's shirt and pulled that off too.

"Good, because I love to win…" Cas grabbed Dean's hands, and put them in his messy bedhair. Then, he spread his hands across the top of Dean's chest, tracing the built muscles just beneath his skin, his body hard yet supple under his hands.

Dean pulled Cas's head down to meet his own, lips colliding with a hurried desperation. Then, Dean pulled his body against Cas's, and Cas's arms wrapped around Dean's lower back, their chests flush against each other, muscles against muscles, tattoo to clean skin, Cas against Dean. Dean used his leverage to push Cas backwards, as he spread his legs so he could flip who was on top quickly.

Dean pressed Cas against the pillows at the head of the bed, leaned down next to his head and growled in a husky voice, "Yeah, but I love to win more." His breath was heavy against Cas's ear.

Both men were now sporting definite erections and they were now anxious to have one another, having never gone there yet.

But, their power play wasn't over yet, and Cas rolled Dean so that Cas would be on top again, however, the bed was not made for sex. Instead of Cas landing on top of Dean, he fell off the bed.

Off of Dean.

Their contact breaking for the first time in weeks.

Dean panicked, reaching for Cas, but he couldn't grab him. Couldn't save him. He wasn't fast enough.

Every time this happened, it was scarier. Dean didn't know if he'd be able to deal with Cas being unconscious anymore, after the hours they'd invested in each other, after the things they'd done together, after the confessions, the kisses, the inklings of love they'd shared… Dean didn't know if he'd be able to sit at the bedside any longer, waiting for a man to wake up. He didn't know if he'd be able to watch this man whom he loved… die. He didn't know if he could do that again, now that he knew him.

It was hard before he knew him. Before they'd spent hours talking and even more hours exploring the other. It was hard before he knew that Cas was gay and had these gorgeous blue eyes that sparkled when Dean told a funny story. It was hard before Dean knew how much Cas loved shakespeare and how much Cas simply knew. It was hard before Dean had bared his life story to Cas and shared with him things he'd never even told Sammy. It was hard before.

But, if Cas went into a coma now… if Cas was lost to Dean forever now… this would be worse than Cassy. It'd be worse than losing her.

Dean flew off the bed, reaching for Cas before seeing that he was already sitting, rubbing his head. Dean still staying completely to his own person.

"Cas?" Dean stared wide eyed at the man who couldn't go mere milliseconds without Dean's contact.

Cas stared at Dean, confusion lacing his blue eyes, then he looked his body up and down, moving of his own accord. Moving without needing Dean to hold him. Awake without needing Dean to touch him.

"Dean... I don't understand."

"Yeah man, me either."

They both stared, Dean standing about six inches from Cas. They each looked at their respective bodies, looking for some reason for this miraculous occurrence.

"Should I call Jess?" Dean asked, a lack of confidence thoroughly lubricating his voice.

But, Cas didn't even need to answer because from the door came a cheerful, "knock, knock!"

"It's open," Dean called.

Jess fluttered in, bedsheets, new clothes and a bunch of flowers in hand. She was whistling softly, some happy tune, perhaps from Mary Poppins. She laid the things on the chair and set the flowers up and began to strip the bed before she realized she hadn't seen Cas.

"Dean… where's Cas?"

"I'm here, on the floor."

She leaned to the side to look around Dean, a little nervous to see what they were doing with Dean's shirt not on, his back to the door, his pants slung low and Cas on the floor where she couldn't see him.

They weren't making contact from what she could see, but Cas was as awake as ever.

"Oh my god."

"I know," Dean said.

And then the flurry began. Doctors came in. Dean and Cas were never too far apart, always in the same room, always able to make eye contact. They looked at each other often, terrified that this wasn't a good thing, that this meant something awful, but mostly terrified to hope that this was good.

They spoke in questioning eyes and worried lips, in furrowed and raised brows, in wrinkled foreheads and bitten lips. The doctor's wouldn't let them near each other for most of the next couple of hours.

At the end of the experimentation and observations, Dean felt faint. They'd taken blood, they'd taken x-rays, they'd moved him as if he were a goddamn doll. And he was sure Cas was the same, if not worse.

Finally, they let him lie down. In a bed that was made for semi-comfort.

But, after two minutes of being alone, he had figured Cas would be put in here as well, that was just how it'd been for so long, he got back out of the bed, grabbing the blanket because he was still cold. He opened the door, looking for Cas, for Jess, for one of the doctor's…

"Mr. Winchester, do you need something?"

He turned and found himself staring straight at one of the doctor's who'd spent the last hour or so touching every part of Dean's body for some medical reason.

"Yeah, where's Cas?"

"He's sleeping."

"Where?" Dean growled.

"In his room." The doctor seemed not to care that Dean was getting more anxious by the minute.

Dean practically spit the words, "Why isn't his room my room?"

"We want to see if this… 'cure' lasts through the night. We can't have you two near each other, the temptation might be too great. We also want to see if the distance also has an effect on whether he's awake or not."

"What if he goes back into a coma tonight?!"

"We'll have to take that risk."

"He'll be sleeping! That's prime coma material right there! Just extend that nap for another month, yeah, that'll be great."

The doctor pursed his lips. "Well, Mr. Winchester, I believe you have the power to wake him up from these comatose states he finds himself in. I suggest you rest up so that you may help him should the need arise."

"No! I want to be in there with him! I don't give a rat's ass about all this doctor shit. That guy that you guys are experimenting on, I really care about him. And he really cares about me. And I waited for his ass for 28 long years. And now I've finally got him. I found him. And I waited for him to wake up for a month. And that was my fault. And he's been getting better. He has been. He doesn't need me as much. And maybe that's just what happened. Maybe he had to wean himself off me. You get it? Like a druggie getting over his addiction, just a little bit at a time. And then suddenly he doesn't need it anymore. Okay? Maybe that's what happened. But every once in awhile that druggie still needs a hit, especially when he's so freshly off.

"But this isn't some drug addiction. This is his life. Maybe if he doesn't get a hit soon, maybe he's gonna fall asleep forever. And you know who I'll blame? You. You'll have killed the only man that I've ever loved. And, then I'll kill you. And then I'll kill myself. Because there'd be no point without him. I already can see that much. So point me in the direction of his fucking room before he dies and so do you."

The doctor set his jaw and glared at Dean.

"Look, boy, I'm going to tell you this one time. Your little boyfriend might die, but it won't be my fault. It'll be yours. Because you're the one who got him addicted in the first place."

"You're treading on real fucking thin ice, man."

"As are you, Winchester."

They stood there in the hall glaring at each other, neither willing to move.

Then a loud shattering crash sounded down the hall and Dean was pushing past the doctor and sprinting down the hall.

He heard his name, over and over and over, and he ran faster, until he slid into the doorway. He saw Cas laying on the floor, needles half in his arm, the monitors going crazy, blood coating his white shirt, a glaze over his eyes, his lips beginning to tremble more frantically, Dean's name coming rapidly with continuous volume gaining until Cas was nearly screaming his name.

"Cas! I'm here!" He slid to Cas, taking the various needles out, wiping away the blood, trying to find the incision, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Cas kept screaming.

"Cas!" Dean grabbed his shoulders, a shock of electricity running through them both at the contact that they'd been sorely missing for hours.

Then Cas quieted.

"Dean?" He asked softly, his breath still harsh and ragged. His eyes fluttered around the room, the glaze clearing, trying to focus, to find Dean. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas's neck and pulled him in for a hug, their bodies flush against each other's.

"I'm here, bud, I got you."

After the mess was cleaned, and Cas was safely unattached from various monitors and the cut he'd gotten from a needle ripping out of him was cleaned and stitched, the doctors left the two alone. They curled up together on the bed, a warm sense of ease coddling them both.

Dean whispered to Cas, "So what happened earlier?" He ran his hand through Cas's unruly hair.

"They told me to go to sleep, that you'd be in later. They just wanted to finish a few tests. So I laid down, but you didn't come. And so I was going to go and see what was going on, but I couldn't move. And then I couldn't see anything. I couldn't hear anything. And all I wanted, all I needed, was you." Cas ran his hand along Dean's jaw, caressing the skin. "And so I must have been screaming. I don't know if I was. I wanted to, but it seemed like I couldn't say anything either. And then you were there."

"I'll always be there, Cas. Always. Don't you worry. We'll be out of here, soon, and we won't have doctor's coming to separate us ever again."

"So… are you implying we'd move in together?"

"Do you not want to?" Dean suddenly looked wary, nervous.

Cas slid his leg up between Dean's and pressed against him, he used his free hand to reach under Dean's shirt, and pulled Dean in for a kiss. "I don't know, Winchester, will we still play Uno?"

"We can play Uno every fucking day if you live with me." Dean rolled on top of Cas and began undressing him and himself.

Cas felt his breaths coming shorter as Dean ran his hands up and down his body, both of them bare for the first time in front of each other. They both hungrily looked the other up and down and then dove in, sucking and pushing and scratching and holding and panting and whispering names and _I'm so close_ and _don't stop_ and _harder_.

And later they laid together, legs tangled, bodies worn, tired breaths falling from their lips. And Cas looked peaceful to Dean, his eyes were shut, he could be asleep. Dean leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead and whispered, "Cas, I love you."

And a small smile crept across Cas's lips as he whispered back, "I love you, too, Dean."


	14. Endings

A/N: This, of course, is long, LONG overdue. I think I knew it was the end when I started the chapter and that's why I didn't want to write it. It's my shortest chapter and I'll need to go back and fix it, make it better, give it more, what have you, but it's here. It's done, and so is this story, only to be revisited for touchups and additions further back in the story. It's been a ride with this one. And I thank all of you who've read this far. It means so much to me, and so does this story. For some people, it's nothing, a mere 23k words, no biggie. But, it's been a bitch for me to stretch out. I love writing, I do. I've just never written anything this long before, and I have only Supernatural, you all and the wonder that is Destiel to thank for it. Hit me up with any comments, reviews, questions or whatnot. I love you all. Until next time!

* * *

"They're so gross. They're all over each other." Sam gagged. Jess smiled and leaned into his shoulder.

"There's a reason for that, you know." She shook her head and kissed his shoulder lightly. "And, I mean, honestly, you were all over me for a while. I kind of miss it."

"I was never all over you like they're all over each other."

"It's not their fault that they've got some weird medical thing. Are you saying you wouldn't be doing that if it was us? If I was the Cas to your Dean?"

Sam made a face. "Ew. But, no. I would. Of course. You know that. I'd hold you and keep you safe and make sure that you never left my arms." He wrapped his arms around her. "I'd never let you go. If I didn't have to, I wouldn't."

Jess smiled brightly, turning into him even more. She giggled. "I love it when you're romantic."

Sam chuckled. "I know." He pressed his face into her hair, smelling the fruity shampoo he'd helped massage in that morning and the undertone of hospital that never seemed to leave her.

Down the hall, Dean was waking up, nine o'clock saturday morning felt like might help that Cas's body was pressed against his, his hair in Dean's face the soft smell of Cas reminding him of speeding down country roads, dirt and a thrill Dean wanted to experience. He smiled, feeling a sense of content he was so unfamiliar with, and still so unsure of, but so confident that this, right now, right here, was right that he didn't care to think of the future.

The hospital was a weird place. It was full of so many honest confessions and last minute proposals and sobs and prayers. It was full of love, even moreso than parks or homes or churches. It was full of honest love.

Those who came to visit, loved whomever they were visiting. On some level, they loved them. They went out of their way to visit.

There are so many weddings conducted for dying cancer patients and other terminal fiances who are caught between everything they've ever wanted and the end that came much sooner than they'd hoped.

And there were people like Sam and Jess who had only come together because of this hospital.

And then there were people like Cas and Dean, who were a sort of miracle and a weird coincidence wrapped into one. Whose stories got passed down through nurses and whispers in the halls. They were never forgotten like the other lives that came and went through these rooms.

Even when they finally were allowed to leave, Cas able to go an entire day without Dean (Dean wouldn't allow a night trial), they didn't really leave. Doctors from everywhere still wanted to analyze the DNA, the brain structures, the compatibility, the genetic makeup of their skin. They kept in touch with the hospital, their legacy continuing on through monthly, biannual, annual visits.

But the hospital wasn't their only life.

They spent days lazing around the mechanic shop, Cas running the register or fixing up bikes or late at night his hands guided under Dean's knowing ones to the right gauge to tighten and the right screw to loosen. Dean would walk by Cas almost subconsciously every hour, his hand ghosting over exposed skin just to remind Cas that he was okay, that he was awake.

On their days off, they went for drives through back country roads, the backseat of Dean's car imprinted with the shape of their bodies or Cas's motorcycle left abandoned a few feet away from the patch of grass flattened by their weights.

Nights went by easier for both of them. Dean hardly had nightmares anymore with a consistent human blanket that smelled of home and comfort to wake up to, and Cas could hardly remember nights before Dean, where there weren't late night clutchings or unconscious kisses or whispered _I love you_ 's.

One day far down the road, Cas asked Dean to marry him. The ceremony was small.

And only months after that day, Dean told Cas he wanted to adopt a little girl.

And two years and six interviews later, they were finally getting their beautiful blonde baby girl, _Mary Claire._

Sam and Jess got married that year, having put it off so Sam could go back and finish graduate school. The next year their boy, _Michael_ , was born.

Some days were hard for all of them. But all their endings were happy enough.

Cas went in his sleep, as Dean had worried he would. And Dean followed, dying of a heart attack only a week later. Jess died of a disease she picked up in the hospital and Sam of a rare cancer only a couple months before Jess went.

They all saw their grandkids, and they all told the stories of how they met:

"Grandpa Dean was a dumbass, he didn't check his blindspot before he backed out of his parking spot, and he hit this biker…"

And Dean would lean into Cas, shakingly grab his hand, and press his lips to it as he did for the first time all those years ago and smile at the biker he fell in love with.


End file.
